Iimbali!

 
The bitter pill of being just to a meanie
The bitter pill of being just to a meanie
I knew I wasn’t over it when a tear cascaded out of my right eye in the depth of the night as we flew over the Algerian mountains towards home....
Recalibrating our responses
Recalibrating our responses
When an experienced and respected writer sent me a story she was submitting to the Mail & Guardian, with a note for me to please credit a...
Building bridges over taken land
Building bridges over taken land
Once upon a Tuesday morning in Johannesburg (the best time to squeeze joy out of the rock that is the gym), I went swimming at my local Virgin...
The strange places we misplace power
The strange places we misplace power
Ukuhamba kukubona. Travelling is seeing, they say in my language. My friend X and I took a day trip on Sunday morning, to a small town in the Free...
Feelings don’t get the respect they deserve
Feelings don’t get the respect they deserve
Hitting children is okay. Writing a Facebook status about how ugly someone’s wedding dress is is an acceptable way to be. Judging and reprimanding a person for wearing fake designer clothing is fine. This is how we are. At least judging by my Facebook and Twitter feed in the past...
How do we live hopefully in a difficult world?
How do we live hopefully in a difficult world?
Lately, the word “process’’ has been perched on almost every one of my thoughts about questions large and small. At the base of my mind, like...
The politics of iintw’ezimnandi
The politics of iintw’ezimnandi
My relationship to food is, as I have discovered recently, inextricably linked to the culture of my formative years and the psychological patterns...
Uyadelela if you think you know South Africa
Uyadelela if you think you know South Africa
I learned this lesson on Tuesday night when, coming home at about 9pm from the gym, I saw our building caretaker and security guard Simon standing...
Bread, chicken and the vulnerability of tough little children
Bread, chicken and the vulnerability of tough little children
At the beginning of winter, I find myself sitting on the stoep of a house owned by a wonderful old woman, catching the sun’s rays as they race...
Lest we forget: Grand histories are built on personal stories
Lest we forget: Grand histories are built on personal stories
I don’t know what it is about going home to rural Tyeni in the Eastern Cape that compels me to record every morsel of life unfolding. Notebooks...

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