This I Knead

I find myself sitting in a café on Durban Road in Cape Town and wondering whether or not I am in the same country as the terrible xenophobic attacks. Coldplay’s “Yellow” is playing in the background, the “Food Network” is playing on the muted televisions, and everyone is absorbed in their own conversation with the occasional eyeing of what is happening on the street or in the café. I have always wondered if money can buy you happiness, and thought that the principle was too black or white. What I have come to realise by being in this café and watching couples walk in for their lunchtime date, or friends walk in laughing at raised volumes, or watching the homeless person on the road battling the cruel cape winds, is that money can buy you blindness. I am flicking down my Facebook news feed and almost breaking out into tears in public (something I never do) because of the images some of my friends are posting about the attacks in Kwa Zulu Natal, and I am surprised by the nu...

(Written and Recited by Katlego K Kol-Kes) I was younger last night and I dreamed of candy Before I knew that sweet things Are often better left untouched. I was younger last night and I dreamed of forever Before I knew that eternity Is worse lived than the fairytales teach. I was younger last night and I dreamed of “I’m sorry” Before I knew that words can’t heal A broken smile or a shattered heart once surrendered. I was younger last night and I dreamed of holding hands  Before I knew that being too close for comfort Sometimes leads to burning tyre necklaces and forced intercourse. I was younger last night and I dreamed of home Before I knew that brick walls Are no safer than battle fields. I was younger last night and I dreamed of memories Before I knew that forgetting Would be the antidote to keeping my loved ones so. I was younger last night and I dreamed of death Before I knew that even an unwelcome acqua...

I read this article and thought: This is exactly why I continue to do the work I do. I would love to get to the point where I read articles like this written by Batswana in Setswana. I thought I'd share the tail end of the ARTICLE here:   • Sex is not the same as gender: Sex refers to biology and anatomy, while gender is both a psychological sense of self, and a set of cultural defined norms that are expected to be adhered to. • Being transgender is not a choice: We are just beginning to understand that, like sexual orientation, our gender identity is pre-wired in our brains. • Transgender people have appeared in all cultures throughout our history, with some cultures accepting and honoring them and others rejecting them. In our culture, the typical norm is: sex = gender = sexual orientation. When one is young and realizes their sense of self does not fit the norm, they often go in to hiding, and they find ways to overcompensate to keep their "secret." The fear ...

A little share of an excerpt from my short story titled: Any Time . As the flakes of ash gently floated from the tip of her cigarette – she smoked menthols “because they burn gently” – and the wisps of smoke rose in a dance above her finger tips, she could feel the depression setting in.   It was midnight, or shortly after midnight, and all the traffic in the road beneath her balcony was now gone. In summer, you can sit out on the balcony for the whole night and ponder your life away; this is what Cleo wanted to do. Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

Got to play around with a mystery game of time and setting scenic writing. Turned out the exercise was more mystery than descriptive, but it was really fun. Here's what I came up with. Can you guess the setting? The void seemed to pulsate with each sonar beep. “Where could they be? Where could they be?” The question looped in Stuart Corrigan’s mind, battling the panic frenzy happening around him. Bodies flew about the corridor pulling streamers and over-inflated balloons behind them. His eyes fixated on the bottom right corner on the monitor. Would it all really come to an end soon? Each minute seemed to take light-years to pass, and he was qualified to make this grand statement. The clink of bottles and cheap dollar store glasses, the type that his Nana kept for unwelcome guests on the ranch, syncopated with his breath and the rhythmic beeps. “Anything yet?” asked the head of Dr. Ewan Plitts, severed by metallic door frame. “No. N...