ikhaya lam

  Dis wanneer ek só voel dat Buurman se .270 baie aanloklik begin lyk waar hy in die kluis toegesluit staan. Die wanskape misvormdheid voor die computer kan nie skryf nie. Die ding sit op die stoel met 'n klip in sy maag, 'n krampagtige gevoel wat eers herinner aan opgewondenheid, tot die gedrog besef: dis vrees wat so voel. Verlammende vrees vir wanskape wees. Die wanskape wese vrees sy eie wanstaltigheid. Ek soek woorde in die HAT, want hierdie wanskapenheid bestaan buite die kring van naamgewing, soos 'n brandsiek township-hond wat aan niemand behoort nie. Die lelike ding wat niemand wil sien nie, wat almal van wegkyk; nie van wil weet nie. Wat mens sommer wegskop wanneer hy 'n oorlas van homself maak.   Op die laaste dag van September stuur my suster twee vars foto's van ons ma. Sy vra eers of ek wil sien, want sy is gaaf en het begrip. Ek sê ja en laai die foto's af. Dit vat my weke om die foto's oop te maak. Ek kyk skrams, sonder om te sien. Ek raak ga

   Winter 1968 Wat is beter: om te weet jou pa gaan dood of om hom onverwags te verloor? So wonder ek en my neef nou die dag. 'n Ander niggie, wie se pa onverwags weg is, reken sy sou enigiets gee vir nog net een gesprek, vir die kans om te kan afskeid neem. Ek sê ek weet nie. My pa (middel agter op die foto hierbo) is dood ná twee maande in 'n hoësorgeenheid. Hy het sy hoeveelste hartaanval oorleef en sou moes terug hospitaal toe vir 'n hartomleiding wanneer hy sterk genoeg was. Een keer was dit ámper. 'n Dominee in 'n bruin poliësterpak roep my eenkant toe in die intensiewe eenheid. Hy wil weet of daar iets fout is tussen my en my pa. Ek voel oorbluf. Ek kan nie sien waarop die gesprek afstuur nie. Die magswanbalans tussen outoriteitsfiguur en sestienjarige laat my onseker staan. Nee, hoekom? Want dit lyk of jou pa nie wíl lewe nie, sê hy. Ek steek die geheim weg dat ek en my pa baklei. Dat ons nooit praat oor my dooie ma (heel regs op foto bo) nie. Dat hy drink e

  For Nomzamo     who ended her brilliant life on the 8th of April 2021   All unborn life is sacred they say except in case of rape or incest or when the mother's life is at risk   Then you may kill the child who would want to carry that product of violence that evil spawn for nine months push it out between your legs   Would you?   Some of us, ill-conceived yet unaborted, Eros and Thanatos in constant tug-of-war   You sentence us to death a thousand times then mourn when we kill ourselves            ❤     https://medium.com/the-understanding-project/the-ancient-dance-between-eros-and-thanatos-492afb747ef

  or    "Not Seeing the Forest for the Trees"     If you haven't read this post , please do that first. The story follows on from there. Okay, back to "coming out": At the end of our sixth session, the psychologist asked if anyone had ever suggested I might be neurodivergent and gave me a test to take home. Long story short, it turns out I'm autistic *, have been all along, always will be. Your present disbelief is a compliment for how I learned to use my intellect to mask my autistic traits. I know I don't " look autistic " (what does autistic look like?). I certainly don't "feel autistic". Even with a professional diagnosis my reaction was the same as yours: I didn't believe it. I do not avoid eye contact. I know "wearing his heart on his sleeve" does not mean a real heart or a real sleeve. I understand facial expressions. My interests are the opposite of restricted. I abhor sameness a

  The title of the story will be “Ek het niks hier verloor nie”. The title will be ironic.   A Farm with No Name   I will write about how there’s nothing left of the homestead I grew up in, nothing to go back for. How Africa is reclaiming the garden, and how it is fitting that way. Nature takes over from neglect and erases my father’s footsteps from the farm. It demolishes my mother’s vegetable garden and the exotic mulberry tree that fed my silkworms. I listened to Springsteen's Magic while driving the roads of the Eastern Cape earlier this year: "This is what will be, this is what will be".   Entry to the Vegetable Garden. There was an enormous mulberry tree next to the gate. My mother bred Boerboel dogs and Landras pigs, and found time to nurture an alcohol addiction in between. My dad ploughed fields and drank a lot of coffee. There used to be this ad in the Huisgenoot , it showed a big clock with a cup of Ricoffy at every hour. I think my father

   "Sometimes I write in self-defense" - Maya Angelou   The day before my birthday I was asked (again) why the search for my biological parents is so important to me; what I hoped to gain by knowing. I found my birth mother several decades ago. She gave birth to both the enquirer and I. I've given up on a relationship with "our" mother, but I would still like to find (out who) my father (was). I will therefore attempt to come up with a once-and-for-all answer on this page, if such a thing is possible. Because I think the answers change as one grows, but more about that later.  I suspect that, when she asked, my genetic half-sister was unaware of the significance of the following day. Not that I mind: I would prefer not to celebrate my birthday. I mark the day only because it seems important to others. This is in no way negative or sad, it's what I feel comfortable with. I don't much see the point of celebrating anybody's birthday after the age of 21.