The GONE Collection

I started the year with a writing team of five writers, but due to unforeseen circumstances three have pulled out of the team. I’m sad to compile this collection but I’m so proud of the work that the writers produced during their stay here at Naane le Moya. I continue to wish them only the best as far as their writing and their creative careers go.

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Swithins Avenue – Boipelo Maetla

My machete wielding white neighbor absolutely makes me sick.

We got to Johannesburg and we drove to every single student accommodation there was on the internet, and few of them actually looked like the pictures they put up online.

Some had caretakers who were old enough to be needing to be taken care of themselves, the irony. Some communes had holes in the kitchen ceilings, blood stains on bathroom walls, champagne splattered all over some bedrooms! Christ! What do the people here get up to?

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The drunk prayer warrior of Battlemount – Baeletsi Tsatsi

We had heard about what they had done to the other villages, these demon possessed men that killed without any conscious. Those who managed to escape came to tell us how they tore open the bellies of pregnant women, how they set their shrines alight and how they gave the village a new name every time they moved on. We lived in fear for we knew that they were coming to our village, Battlemount.

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Let’s Talk Text: Free African Literature

Its the 31st of December 2016, I’m alone and I’m planning to be alone for some days. I want to get into the new year sober. My plans are to get into the new year alone, to gather my thoughts and to spend time with God, to present my year plan to Him and to not be blinded by anything. Closer to 00h00 I start to write the plans I have for the new year and one of the plans is to NOT BUY BOOKS. When you walk into my bedroom its books everywhere, some I’ve read, some I have not read, just books everywhere and as much as I’m a bit of a readaholic whose dream job is to be paid for reading, the sight makes my eyes a bit sore.

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Tuesday Shorts: The things we forget – Baeletsi Tsatsi

My aunt tells me that my father left me three weeks before my fourth birthday. He knocked at her door and handed me over to her like a parcel, he could not handle it anymore he said. My mother left ten days after my birth, leaving my father with their first child. My aunt tells me my parents relationship had always been toxic. They met on the 21st of December in downtown Johannesburg. My aunt and my mother were doing the last Christmas shopping before going to my grandmothers place for the festive season.

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Trip past the graveyard – Boipelo Maetla

Explain death to little children, lest it kills them when they are older and they mourn without intent, never really letting the dead ones go, wishing them birthdays long after they have passed, keeping even the minutest of memories alive. Explication means when they look at deceased people’s pictures, they will not cringe, but be strong enough to reminisce about them without falling apart. We are born, and we die, and the space in between is mercy, this we should teaching little children to cherish it, and not to fear it.

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