We are the land. We are Africa. We are made from the ancestral spirits of the San and the Khoikhoi and the Bantu peoples. We are not the god of everybody but are the beginning of everything. Many people have sought our counsel in the wind or in bones or in the healing wise whispers of those who passed before them. Ours is the domain that stretches across from ocean to ocean and from the great desert above to the stormy coastline below.
We have been here since the beginning. We have raised mountains by folding great depths of rock over each other. We have grown forests and greened valleys. Along us rivers stream down to the sea and carve canyons out of the stone, sand and soil. And we offer their waters to the sky so that it may rain back down upon everything that lives on us. That water sustains life. Our grass and roots and bark feed elephant and buffalo. Our sable and springbuck feed the mighty lion and cheetah. Our fields are filled with abundance. Continue reading
I was sitting at home one night and a friend of ours—a Pom, working at Blue Circle cement factory—phoned me and said “Dorrian, I’m in big trouble. This dog arrived on our doorstep in town and we made the huge mistake of giving him some food. Now the dog refuses to leave. My wife’s gone to Johannesburg and she said that if the dog’s still here when she gets back, she’s moving into the hotel.” And he asked “Can’t you take the dog. He is a St Bernard, but he must be a brak because he has short hair.”
So I said “Ja, bring him. We need a big dog.” Continue reading
Tina Turner blasts through speakers that aren’t supposed to be played at their maximum. The deejay sips a fresh, satisfying brandy and coke. He surveys the crowd, smiling, ignoring the cracks and tears pounding out of his tripodded black boxes.
You’re simply the best.
Better than a–ll the rest.
The song is rolling down from one of its crescendos. Many of the folks on the dance floor are howling along with the lyrics, some half a note behind but not caring to catch up. Mom and Dad are facing each other, slightly apart from the cacophony. Every now and again, though, they’ll look over at the mass of arms and legs and bobbing heads, and smile. She’s dancing the way she always dances: shoulders straight, body moving side-to-side, feet taking turns tapping neatly behind the heel of the other. Her arms swing gently to the beat, elbows stiff and wrists limp. The gold bangles from three special Christmases and two birthdays clink against each other and her auburn hair, blown dry in one slow inward curl, sways from shoulder to shoulder. Dad is pretending to be Bruce Springsteen: one leg in front of the other, body open, fingers snapping in a big half-circle, hips following the lead of his clicking fingers, back knee too. That’s exactly how the arm-jabbing rock star does it when he’s beamed onto our curved TV screen from concert stages far away from here. Continue reading
The final judgment in Roe v Wade was handed down nearly four years after “Jane Roe” fell pregnant. The African-American Civil Rights Movement spent fourteen very active and costly years fighting for equal and fair treatment. Legislation preventing the next Matthew Shepard hate crime and ensuring equal pay to future Lilly Ledbetters took eleven years to get passed. Sixteen years after the Defense Of Marriage Act first became law we are finally seeing its undoing and the release of a new wave of liberties and equalities, but even after all that time it’s still not fully decided or undone. Continue reading
But last week was so pretty, so warm, so sunny, I think to myself as I look around with despair at the tar-bottomed rivers that follow cars to intersections and flow over each other to swirl and twirl through the bars of the storm drains. My umbrella is shredded by the wind and my shoes are squeakingly acknowledging that they are waterlogged, as I miss busses and dodge cars to get to a certain room, in a specific hall, by a fixed time. Today is the first day of classes and, partly due to the relentless rainstorm, it feels like a world away from the sunny shining of campus during the post-Irene bliss of registration week. Continue reading
There are drums. In the distance. The beats join the music in a happy union. I can sense smiling. And a twirl of tulle-ed skirts and can-can costumes. I walk closer, unable to keep myself away. Someone takes my bicycle from me. “Don’t worry, it’s safe here.” The tarred road quickly becomes gravel as I walk further off today’s route. That’s okay. It is safe here. The music gets louder and as I round a corner; a red flash. Then more red, and a torso. First just smiling and shaking and rhythmically undulating. Then a louder flash of music. And the drums again. Always the drums as I walk into what feels like an African tribal ritual of stomps and starts. I walk through the beat. People start writhing around me. More red. Beautiful red that makes me smile. Smile because everything red is a dress and only some of the dresses are women. That feels strange out here in the raw country, where cows stare and butter is churned instead of manufactured. But it feels like home. I walk in deeper. Continue reading