The fight against time


It’s Saturday again, the living are celebrating the lives of the dead

“Can I have this one?” I ask

“Nah, that holes warm for a cold one” said the undertaker

Strange how the clocks keep moving and we keep dying. We offer a minute of silence for souls of the departed, yet the clocks keep ticking disrespectfully. We try to own it, govern it by planning our schedules, assuming that we are it’s masters. Time laughs, knowing that it never belonged to us. Looking back on life, time was a premature ejaculation that came too fast


You don’t see the stars anymore


You don’t see the stars in the city anymore, covered by the man made invisible industrial fog in the sky. When you do see one, you have to squint to get a good look at it, 20/20 vision or not. Go out of the city, somewhere remote and the stars will fill the skies like a rash. Eventually they die too, stars, supernovas, Carrie Fisher and George Michael

It’s a bit sad


It’s a bit sad that wars are fought over religion and politics, leaving children orphaned.

It’s a bit sad that child soldiers know guns and death before love and innocence.

It’s a bit sad that my colour and heritage offend you.

It’s a bit sad that a life is snuffed out before it gets the chance to grow.

It’s a bit sad that the corrupt get richer.

And it’s a bit sad when a beggar goes down on his knees

A shitty day


I woke up this morning with a pain in my gut and a desperate need to relieve myself. I sat on the white plastic toilet seat and let go. It came flooding out all at once. It probably had something to do with the mutton curry roti I ate at Abby’s house last night. 
I wanted to go for a drive, the car began to give trouble and never left the garage. It would start, but died as soon as I stepped on the brakes or took my foot off the accelerator. Damn death machine wanting to drive me to my doom
About the third or fourth visit to the toilet, my asshole burned like hellfire. Wiping began to hurt and I could see red on the toilet paper – You sensitive asshole
My woman and I never spoke much, work kept her busy, that was a good enough reason for us not to talk. We’d been going at it ever since Saturday afternoon. Our differences in ideologies about the purpose of life being the cause. No tickets aboard Cloud 9 this week, we’d try again next week if they had bookings.

A Death in the family


It’s been a while since the last time all of us came together like this. Everyone was there, except for Morne’ who moved to America a few years ago. Abby and I arrived in a gray Avanza soccer mom van. Donay and Alicetine were parked across Gershwin’s house when we got there. They assumed that nobody was home and didn’t bother to knock. It turned out that Gershwin was inside the entire time. Donay gained a bit of weight since the last time I saw her, the navy blue frame hugging dress did not hide anything, but she still had those cute dimples embedded in her cheeks. Lesley, Cleaven and Kyle arrived later to complete the party of friends. We were all there for Gershwin whose father passed away last week after losing a battle to cancer. The lounge was filled with more laughter than sadness due to nostalgia and memories we replayed to each other. Abby and I were the subject of ridicule about our virginity, Alicetine being the main instigator as usual. Inside we knew that he was hurting, the laughter a temporary relief from the pain.
The group began to thin out eventually with Lesley leaving first. Gershwin and I walked her to her Volkswagen mini van. It was dark then, close to 8PM. Abby and I left after she did, but not before Gershwin stopped me saying he needed to speak to me.

“Look bra, I just want to thank you for being there for my father whenever he needed to go to the hospital when I was away in Kimberley. Thank you for being there as a friend when I needed you. You have no idea how much I appreiciate it and how much it means to me.”  he said.

“You don’t need to thank me, G. It was a pleasure. It’s what friends are for” I replied

“I still want to say thank you” he ended off
In the process of shaking hands and bumping shoulders, his head fell against my chest. He couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, crying into my maroon shirt, penetrating tears. Lifting his head, I saw the tears streaming down his face. I could feel the tears that I’d been holding back, wanting to burst forth as I hugged him, but I had to be strong and keep them at bay.
Growing up, death never really affected me. I felt no need to shed a tear when seeing others around me weeping, my tear ducts dry as desert sands. I always thought that it would happen when my grandmother or one of my parents descended into the the brown earth, never to return. Yet it happened with someone who I never knew very long. In the short space of time of getting to know Gershwin’s father – two or three drives to the hospital and sitting together in the waiting room two hours early – He had such a strong impact in such a short amount of time. When I think about him no longer being around, a tear falls down the side of my face. Who knew that his father, a man I knew for less than a year… Would be the one to teach me about loss? 



Usually when I did my business, it would glide out, I’d wipe and then flush. Quick as a drive thru. I don’t know how people can sit on the crapper and read a book or magazine. I tried it, but I needed to push a bit this time. The toilet is the only place one can truly be alone, meditate and find a fragment of peace. The smell, more than enough to ward off anyone and the rest of the world. Washing my hands, I looked into the mirror above the basin. The white of my right eye was red and I could finally see what people were talking about when they said “you look just like your father”

Confession to my typewriter


The real reason as to why I rarely sit my ass on that short rectangular stool anymore is because I’m scared, perhaps intimidated by you. I’m scared that I don’t have anything concrete; that you’ll end up hating me for making you do something you don’t really want to do. I don’t know how many more empty promises I can make to you. You’re faithful, I’m not. Everyday I come home, you’re there waiting for me, and I lie to myself that I’ll spend time with you once I arrive home. Forgive me, I want to be better