#ed18
December 2019
Philisiwe Twijnstra
heavenly affairs
Loic Ekinga
Lebogang Mogul Mabusela
CONVICTION
Makoti Dreamzâ„¢
We’ve come to the (Greco-Roman) end of another year – one where we accepted that the path of growing up is topsy-turvy and that life, as always, goes on, and on, and on – and on that note, Ja. Magazine keeps on going, too! This year, we rolled out continuous submissions, embarked on a series of workshops in Durban, presented a talk at the National Arts Festival in Makhanda, and we’ve just put together this little publication you’re reading. In this edition we have flash fiction, photography, illustration, and poetry – a selection of literary tapas. If you’ve noticed a certain something special about this zine, it’s due to the creative and editorial input of Ashton Kirsten, who has been working with us since July, learning the ropes of self-publishing and all things Ja. Mag Happy reading, stay well, and have a great new year, Ja. Team
CONTENTS
4. heavenly affairs by Philisiwe Twijnstra 9. Early Morning by Lumumba Mthembu 12. A Journey through Time and Space by Ashton Kirsten 15. Indifference by Kajal Premnath 18. Makoti Dreamzâ„¢ by Lebogang Mogul Mabusela 25. The Boat Goes to the Bottom by Isabel Rawlins 27. Waiting for the Robot to Change by Jess Bothma 28. CONVICTION by Loic Ekinga 30. ABSENCE by Loic Ekinga With visuals by Anela Luggya, Ulrike Marais, Andre Swart and Paige Kroger.
heavenly affairs words by Philisiwe Twijnstra
illustration by Ulrike Marais
FLASH FICTION
T
he benches in the first row shone from the shifting and brushing of my bum. Not only was I polluting the air with groans, but I’ve taken the cleaning lady’s meticulous job. Ah! not to worry though, the corner still collected dust which had choked the Spider to death three weeks ago. Killing was easy here. The sweat that came with rubbing off from one chair to another peeled off my skin, slowly revealing who I was. It didn’t matter whether I had a car or not, whether I was white or the colour of the soil. The skin on my body had turned into feathers; the only thing that was left of me was my head. However, I was not the only one waiting in those chairs, I was impressed at how the elderly, and mothers and their babies were attended too. They were the first to go in. 5
FLASH FICTION
The chairs had stickers of me, the passing cars had faces of me and some held me closer to their chest. Nothing resembled my truest form. It frustrated me, how people sketched me… I always thought my long rectangularly shaped feathers, were both enticing and menacing. Especially the ones on my shoulders: they were longer and had circle shapes. The queues were long and dreadful. One person was kind enough to realise that my T-shirt had feminist things written in bold on the front. This was the new way of rioting. I thought I should assimilate to life on earth. He dared himself and handed me his chair. I gurgled a thank you. He smiled. I took the chair. I mean, in all honesty, no feminist will stand for three hours, hugging the pain, without dislocating joints. I’ve been shifting away from the sun, minding the muddy pebbles right in front of me. The yawns and the irritable oh god exclamations happened between those chair-bonding. Now I think I was exhausted from sitting,my weight pressed the chair down to the ground. I was worried that this waiting was turning me, revealing who I truly was. This was not the time for the second coming yet… oh jeez no! Can my skin just stop shedding?
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A mother passed by followed by her kid. I recognised the mark on her forehead, she was the chosen earth wife. I also saw her feeling not safe around strangers’ glances. Although the feeling was lightly, accentuated by the hungry, yelling child and carting mounts of nappies on her bag. Sadly, she would never know that her husband was an assistant of heaven’s gate keeper before he came on earth. I felt my back detaching from my spine and my lips getting drier. In this moment, my tummy collected all the air that made me feel bloated. I looked around and saw my brother Gabriel, coming through the gate with holy water. I guess dad sent him because he saw what was about to happen on earth, since my wings were about to announce themselves. Dad couldn’t allow that. Before I left Dad said, “Jezus there is much thinking and less caring on earth. Go check.” So, I’d done what I was asked to, and now I came here to the home affairs for my disappearing-to-the-clouds papers. But moments ago, before Gabriel could reach me with holy water, my wings just stretched out of my back.
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illustration by Ulrike Marais
FLASH FICTION
Early Morning words by Lumumba Mthembu
T
he alarm rings at 05:00. I rise from the bottom bunk. The dark room smells like farts and morning breath. I open the door and test the handle of Gogo’s bedroom, which is adjacent on the right. Although the light is off, the matriarch is awake, as verifiable by the prayers of Radio Veritas. “Sawubona, Gogo.” “Hello,” she sings in a gummy drawl. Her dentures are not in this early. I spare her conversation and chuckle as she winds her ankles like a little girl. To the right of her bed is the garage door that communicates with the master bedroom. I twist the key, press the light switch, and brush the fridge on my right. Gogo does not keep her perishables in the kitchen. The fluorescent bulb flickers before blinking luminescence from the ceiling. I squeeze between the fridge and Gogo’s Etude, which is parked just before my chest of drawers. My breath condenses as I dress in the confined space. Mam’khulu occupies the bathroom so I cannot bathe or brush my teeth. I apply roll-on and deodorant to suppress the smell of sleep. Brushing my hair adds to the illusion that I am clean. A dry washcloth rids my shoulders of dandruff from my unwashed scalp. I shove my Nokia X3 into my front-left pocket. Paper money is folded into the back-right; coins go in the front-right. What is left is to make my bed, then I am out.
9
“
I shove my Nokia X3 into my front-left pocket. Paper money is folded into the back-right; coins go in the front-right. What is left is to make my bed, then I am out.
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FLASH FICTION
I twist the Yale and exit the lounge. One step puts me on the porch, and another on the grey-pink paving. I swing the orange metallic gate toward me. A right turn sends me down Eteza Street, towards the blue container at the bottom of the road. I swerve right around it into an unnamed street. There are no signs. The post tells you where you live. I accelerate to catch the 05:15 taxi. If I make it I will get to Bree before the queue marshalls dictate boarding. I cross the street to Mzamo. The sliding door of one minibus is open. People load from the front, leaving the back rows vacant. I am early so I spoil myself with a loose. The vendor is stationed behind the Quantum. “Sho, bhutiza?” I greet. “Sho, mf ’ethu.” “Awung’gay’i-Courtleigh da?” I reach into my front-right pocket and hand him R3.00. He gives me the cigarette with the gold band. As he fondles his cashbox for 50c I quickly add, “Nama-Chappies.” I select one yellow, one green, and one watermelon-flavoured square. My hands brush my pockets but before I ask, the vendor gives me an empty matchbox and stick. You have to ignite the cigarette in one take. I strike the strip overhand and bring the nascent flame into the cup of my hands. A puff of smoke signals victory as I return the matchbox to the vendor. I lean against the wall. The taxi fills person by person.
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FLASH FICTION
A Journey through Time and Space words by Ashton Kirsten “Have you donated blood before?” “No…” She reflects upon the crisis of conscience that has led her to the SANBS clinic this morning. A billboard suspended over the N1 told her that her blood could save lives. “Do you know your blood group?” “O-negative.” She repeats what her father told her about herself. “Mooi man!” the nurse coos, “the universal giver, neh?” The smell of cheap antiseptic fills her lungs – it burns her nose and she tries to breathe her own scent instead. She folds her face into the smell of her t-shirt. The stout Afrikaans lady cracks the plastic seal of the needle and discards the wrapping. She turns her head away: she doesn’t want to see the size of the needle. “En nou?” the puzzled nurse enquires, tilting her head to the side. The lady’s hair is permed and harshly highlighted; it’s the colour of a dirty R200 note. She smells like Dettol and day-old cigarette butts. Her talons are painted a metallic pink and the edges are chipped. Still averting her eyes from the sight of the steel, she replies: “I don’t like needles…” The nurse straightens her head on its axis and emits a hearty, motherly chuckle. Entertained, she prods the ink that runs down the patient’s arm with a sausage-y forefinger, “But then what about these?” she asks with a croaky voice. 12
illustration by Ulrike Marais
“That’s different,” she mumbles. She isn’t sure why it’s different, but in her mind, it most definitely is. The tourniquet is clipped around her upper arm and the nurse instructs her to ball her clammy hand into a fist so that she can find a vein worthy of the needle. She stares down at the young woman’s arms and struggles to make out the vessels underneath the dark ink. She extends her fingers and decides to feel for a vein instead – she traces the crook of the elbow tentatively, as if tracing for cracks in the pavement. “Got one!” she exclaims triumphantly, having selected her unoxygenated victim. The nurse instructs her not to flinch when the needle pierces her skin (“Dit sal dit net erger maak…”). She still feels herself tense, and every sinew in her body is pulled tight. The sight of her brown blood slowly filling the transparent tubes and dripping into a flaccid sack makes her feel stiflingly hot. This isn’t as rewarding and romantic as she’d imagined it to be. Goosebumps emerge at the back of her thighs, and her hands feel overlywarm and uncomfortably moist. Her head feels far too heavy for her neck and the antiseptic whirls around her like storm clouds. The fluorescent lights are suddenly too bright and they buzz too loudly. Despite the open window, there isn’t enough air in the room. She wants to get up and breathe up all the air that’s outside: filling her lungs and her bloodstream. Thoughts whirr and blur and spin and somersault in her head. She’s travelling through time and space; simultaneously tethered and floating. Her vision narrows to a pinhole and she goes limp. She has too much gooey saliva in her mouth, she needs to gob it out onto the pristinely bleached tiles. Suddenly, the right way up is upside-down. She is the shape of water. “Ag, fok,” the wrestlerish nurse mutters.
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FLASH FICTION
Indifference words by Kajal Premnath
T
he mere sight of his face irritated her. All the pent-up frustration and unspoken words thrashed within. He never behaved the way she wanted him to. And he didn’t care. It took seven years to build the little bungalow they playfully called ‘Chateau Houghton’. Several declined loans, threats of divorce and negative pregnancy tests later, the pale-yellow building finally sat at the end of a sandy road surrounded by dry shrubbery. She hated everything about it. She hated the dizzying multicoloured tiles of the bathroom. She hated the constantly dry air that left a tingling sensation in her throat. She hated their neighbours–always hiding behind partly-closed curtains and pretending to not be home when their doorbells rang. She hated the ever-present sun and the little butchery at the entrance of town that only sold one cut of steak. She hated being here. She hated being anywhere. “But at least”, she thought, “…at least I still have feelings left to feel.”
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“You can’t take this lying down. They’re cheating you out of your own money!” Her voice tore into the still air, yet nothing happened. He merely stared at her, impassively. He blended perfectly into the wall, not moving or speaking. His indifference cut through her as sharply as it first had 10 years ago. He quickly lost the unannounced staring contest between them and turned the radio on. Out came his daily crossword while she remained looming over him in a state of rage. She sighed, turned and walked out of the suffocating house. Outside, the air was cool – a rare phenomenon for these parts. The sun seemed to be shy today, with swirls of grey dancing their way over her. Her eyes brimmed thick with tears, while her hands could not stop playing with one another. ‘He doesn’t care’, repeated itself over and over in her mind. She does not know how long she stood out there, but her daze was suddenly broken by the bursting of a cloud. Thunder roared loud and wide. A cold shower of water poured down on her frail, unsuspecting body. ‘He doesn’t care’, she couldn’t help but think once more as her thin hair stuck to her face. The earth, only subjected to thirst up until now, sizzled as it chilled. Suddenly, she felt a dull poke at her ankle and heard the click of the door close behind her. Looking down, she saw a clump of matte black fabric nestled between her feet – an umbrella. A sad smile teased her face as she picked it up, sharply spun around and walked back into Chateau Houghton.
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Š2019 Makoti Technologies, Inc. All rights reserved. Under the copyright laws, this manual may not be copied, in whole part, without the written consent of Makoti Technologies. The Makoti logo is a trademark of Makoti Technologies, Inc., registered in South Africa. Use of the Makoti logo for commercial purposes without the prior written consent of Makoti Technologies may constitute trademark infringement and unfair competition in violation of South African copyright laws. Every effort has been made to ensure that the information in this manual is accurate. Makoti Technologies, Inc. South Africa @makoti_bridal_gifts_shop Makoti Dreamz is a trademark of Makoti Technologies, Inc., registered in South Africa.
How to use Makoti Dreamz guns Step 1. Pick your desired technology. Step 2. Wear the technology on your left hand. Step 3. Put your fingers correctly into the trigger guards. Step 4. Middle fingers up. Step 5. Raise it up. Step 6. Put it in his face. Step 7. Tell him: “boy bye�
Warning Our products are not suitable for people who have a high tolerance to caucasity, misogyny, misogynoir, homophobia, xenophobia, transphobia, Islamophobia, tribalism, white supremacy, capitalism and classism, OR People who have a low tolerance to difficult women. Our products have a tendency to cause irritation to people who like their women nice. If irritation occurs plzcuntinue. This gun is more suitable for those people who don’t have a sensitivity to an over load of femininity. This gun is a killjoy feminist technology.
Features include:
• granting men a good form with compensation for your emotional labour.
This gun is for everyday use, not to be treated as a once in a while chore you must do like a burden! dismantle the patriarchy, don’t finesse a loophole that will help you benefit. But be sure to supplement your usage with filthy music, that gets you to throw that booty in a circle. Be sure to throw it precisely at 360 degrees, this this very good for spinal health, as being a killjoy feminist can cause one to snap, to rightfully snap. A healthy dose of feminist theory will maintain the focus when you shoot our gun. The gun will not remove the type of feminist standing in your way. Side effects include having big dick energy confidence! Do not panic when you get tingly sensations! Makoti is not liable for the side effects that come with wielding such prowessery. Although our technology is aimed at giving superpowers, keeping yall safe and enhancing yall’s desires, you might be forgotten, ignored and not celebrated for your prowessery!
photograph by Paige Kroger
FLASH FICTION
The boat goes to the bottom words by Isabel Rawlins after Zap Mama’s song ‘Bottom’
T
he boat goes to the bottom. Submerges, slowly, the sea bathes its deck. Water fills behind the glass, windows show – half full. The crew watch, floating in rotating rings of red and white. They turn like slow tops. Captain rests his hand in a salute, elbow on the water. The boat goes to the bottom. Now they wait, legless, lined up, one arm to hold another. They can talk to their left or right but for a long while no one does. Lapping water floods their ears. Some lie back to unhunch their shoulders. Blame waits in all their minds, twitching on its haunches. The sun drops and one man speaks to quiet his fear, “I drove a road train once; it can take a full minute to stop…” Until they hear the dull sound of the boat hitting the bottom. They all know what it is: they have been waiting, wondering if they’d hear it, how long it would take. The man clears his throat, “It was in Australia. I took a five day job from Adelaide to Perth. On the straits of the Nullabor, a kangaroo lay half dead in the road. I could see it was still alive, but I had less than a minute; 120 tonnes behind me, I rode straight over it. Thought I’d be better off at sea after that, now I’m not so sure.” No one knows how the morning comes, it just does. The men look from left to right at their own drawn faces mirrored back. Flotsam is dotted around them; plastic forks, cups, empty bottles, drifting alone with no way to cling together. After that, the men make a circle and become one giant ring, turning like a slow top. 25
PHOTOGRAPH BY PAIGE KROGER
POETRY
Waiting for the robot to change by Jess Bothma Ever noticed the plants, So regal, Always in perfect light? Millennia of evolution To just be, Without mid-stem crisis Or confusion Naturally, In Persephone’s dance, With birds and trees, Sweet little bees, Glorious sunlight, grow! Multitudes of greens, My eyes cannot know So much is offered, Sophisticated in their simplicity, Full of grace and life Even gracious to the knife, ‘Forgiveness is the smell of fresh cut flowers’ I feel washed by their elegance, They need nothing from me, Roots and water submerged in the ground Little leaves, sparkling sunshine, Without a sound The abundance Varieties of shape and size, Too much for my ungrateful eyes Such dynamic perfection, Exploding on show Alongside this vulgar road, Flat and crude Completely dead and rude.
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POETRY
CONVICTION By Loic Ekinga
She said “brother, God does not take sides” “I agree, sister” I said. She said again “brother, God does not take sides” And suddenly everything made sense.
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PHOTOGRAPH BY ANDRE SWART
29
POETRY
ABSENCE By Loic Ekinga
Your father Would have Liked you, You know.
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ART BY ANELA LUGGYA
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