Monday, May 15, 2006
...lees vir my, Mamma
Donderdag
min het ons geweet dat ambulaansmanne my vyf ure later na die hospitaal toe sou moes ry, maar al wat ek wou hoor is haar stem teen my oor, ‘n bewussyn van haar gebede,
soos kleintyd se maagkrame in die middel van die nag,
het haar soet woorde weer al my vrese kom weggejaag
Sewe tydsones wes van haar skoot,
lê my kop in kouekoors geweek,
alleen in my woonstel stoei ek teen onsigbare spoke wat al my are leeg tap,
“psalm-een-en-negentig”
“ek het nie my bril op nie, skat”
“maak nie saak nie, lees dit net ‘seblief”
stadig fluister sy tydlose smekinge
Moedersdag vandag
volmaan in Dallas, sy maak reg vir die eerste oggenddiens in Pretoria, bel die drie-en-twintig-nommers om weer dankie vir alles te sê
“hi mamma, dis ek”
“hallo, pop”
ek hoor haar glimlag
vrede
sy maak alles beter
Sunday, May 07, 2006
essay to Mr. Kristof
UV15 minimum sun-screen, white-gold * and a good sense of humor…
Africa has a heart like a minibus-taxi in Johannesburg, always space for one more.
My heart was consumed by her at the age of ten when I watched Out of Africa until the bloody part where the writer-lady went bezerk with her whip on the lion trying to get her oxen. Twenty years later, I have also taken a few shots at government officials and business men who cared more about protocol than the people dying of Malaria on donkey-carts outside locked clinics.
Three years ago, I traded my blue-prints for words. Today, I have completed four of my six semesters of a graduate degree in Media Communications in this alternate universe called the United States of America. I do most of my time travel in the shower or movie theatres. Amid the torrents of wasted water or the smell of synthetic popcorn, I transport myself back to the burnt reds and ochre of my Mother Continent.
Kenya protected Karen Blixen from death-by-boredom in a potential life of civilized femininity. She began writing her stories trying to survive the long draughts on her farm. I began writing mine after my brother died and my mom’s genetic disease (Muscular Dystrophy) launched its relentless coup on her body. Fighting seems inevitable to my fellow Africans, but equally indigenous is our storytelling.
I migrated to the northern hemisphere in search of mentors, technology and learning from the giants how to dream big. Texas proved the pinnacle of God’s irony but I have grown beyond my wildest imagination amidst this sprawling concrete jungle without any natural forms of oxygen or chlorophyll. My peculiar accent still peaks interest but at least every American friend of mine knows that we have paved roads and internet in my hometown.
It proved easier to switch from the Queen’s English into another version of my second language than accepting my own ethnocentrism and global ignorance. I possess the unique vocabulary to translate Africa into American with a heart knitted to people in both spheres and existential knowledge of their current worldviews.
On a practical level, I am addicted to making life difficult for myself and have a unique knack for storming in where Hummers fear to tread. As a matter of fact, I am actually sneaking into Zimbabwe this summer on my way to building a community centre on the Mozambican side of the border in the province of Manica. I worked on the border post between Namibia and Angola in 2002 when the contractor dug up a live mortar bomb where the storm water drain was supposed to go. I have slept in almost every conceivable position, temperature and precipitation combination and strongly believe that one can judge the level of one’s contentment in life by how much joy the sound of running water can produce.
Individualism has paralyzed the developed world, people long to discover meaning and purpose in their efficient lives. Africa’s humble people have taught me what courage looks like. I would like to go on a reporting trip with you and share it with the rest of the world.
*an extra roll of twin-ply toilet-paper
waking up in the wrong country
Today was Saturday.
Tomorrow will still be May.
Yesterday I woke up in the wrong country.
(Did I take my laundry out of the drier this afternoon?)
Disclaimer: two days from now I start finals-week of my second year of a Masters degree on a foreign continent across the
8:27a: after six hours of cold-meds-induced-sleep a telephone interrupts my coma. Expecting my parents calling from another time zone, I greeted Jennifer-from-the-tenth-floor in Afrikaans instead of English. Without opening my eyes I shared a brief but rather bizarre conversation deliberating if Pauline-from-the-ninth-floor would be available to baby-sit Jen’s two kids that evening or not.
I had no clue.
Instead of talking more than was absolutely necessary and waking up in the process, I volunteered to watch them. We said goodbye.
8:30a: I dissolved into my mattress under blue tranquility smelling like fabric softener. I reset my alarm to 9:15a leaving enough contingency-time to get ready for our Senior Chapel at 10:30a despite my limited wardrobe options in dress-code-abiding outfits as I have moved halfway out of my apartment into another home.
Without a word she starts tearing through my open suitcase and cupboards diging for more suitable attire.
I get up.
I shuffle my way to the window past boxes and class-notes to open the blinds. Instead of our main campus in
“We’re going to be late, get dressed,” Michelle says and tosses a horrid-but-tumble-dryable-wash-and-wear-floral-below-the-knee-cut-dress at my feet.
"Get dressed. We have ten minutes to get to the bible study.”
“What about the Senior Chapel? Aren’t we going anymore?”
9:15a: The alarm-clock goes off scaring away the untamed wilderness of
This is the third floor.
I don't own any floral dresses.
(I did baby-sit the kids, but that's another story.)
Monday, May 01, 2006
after Pauline's wedding shower
Writing on the first crisp page in an unused diary
reminds me of waking up on New Year’s Day.
It signals the birth of dreams to reach and hopes to believe.
Leaving behind a dead history in a growing stack of written prayers on my book shelve.
Forgetting the mistakes and failures contained in tear-smeared paper leaves.
I choose to depart from bad habits and expect endorsements of inching growth inside myself.
Having more authentic conversations in a fledgling friendship
reminds me of birthday parties on Valentine’s Day.
Weeks pass and good intentions postponed due to urgent busy-ness and factual priorities.
Pink hearts and red decorated window fronts portray perfection and unrealistic ideals.
Reminded of sad endings in the past I feel incompetent yet again.
I hide behind what seems acceptable on the outside and feel lonely with him watching my confusion.
Talking to God at breakfast this morning
reminds me of Christmas and the fact that He made the stars.
Years of vulnerability to You and still You choose to sit with me every day and listen to my ramblings.
You see all that has wrecked my broken heart and still You love me despite what You know about me.
Reminding me that You chose to forget my shame, still smiling at me each morning with fresh mercy.
Hold my trembling hand dear Father! Take away this fear of being known by man because I know You know me already.
Fighting with this foe for twenty-four hours
reminds me of Easter Sunday and the concept of grace.
All I can offer to anybody is this new creation I have become because of Your patient loving-kindness.
Like a chrysalis, Your empty tomb is proof of my new life and beautiful future.
Inside this mortal body glow the jewels You made within me, through my eyes they shine.
Confident I walk toward this gift You still offer us, trusting You to open his heart to mine.