Summerx500 Digital Anthology by Vanguard Magazine and Dibookeng by Summerx500

Where known material has been used, we would like to acknowledge that we do not own the copyright. In the story ‘Summertime’ music lyrics from ‘Summertime’ a song released in 1935 by George Gershwin and DuBose Heyward were used.

Cover and Illustrations by Thandiwe Tshabalala

Introduction

"Storytellers are a threat. They threaten all champions of control, they frighten usurpers of the right-to-freedom of the human spirit." - Chinua Achebe “If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write.” -Toni Morrison

If there are two quotes that can encapsulate the motivation for this publication, it is these two by two giants of literature. This anthology aims to debunk the myth that young black South Africans don’t (want to) read, and to further suggest that there are many ways of enjoying literature with narratives that are relevant to the lives of young black South Africans. The anthology is the love child of two media houses passionate about creating new and nuanced narratives for their generation: Vanguard Magazine, a digital platform aimed at providing young black women who are coming of age in post-apartheid South Africa with the space to navigate various cultural environments and speaks to topics as wide as current affairs, culture and careers. DiBooKeng, a publishing, book related events and outreach focused book initiative with the aim of breaking down the perceptions about literature and its use in our daily lives. Over fifteen emerging and established fiction voices were challenged to write stories that are exactly 500 words long and to theme of summer. They were guided by thoughts, words and deeds that invoke summer: letters to summer or re-enactments of summer memories. The cover and the illustrations are the result of graphic designer’s Thandiwe Tshabalala’s creative genius. The journey to produce this illuminating body of work has been both enlightening and fulfilling. We have been challenged in our separate missions to contribute to a new image of African voices working to create a body of work representative of both our strong and fragile nature.

We have been deeply honoured to be let into the most intimate and playful spaces of their thoughts and feelings which have been carefully laid down on the page. We hope to keep engaging with all aspects of African writing and providing a space to develop critical new writing that shines the light on the different aspects of our black experience.

We do hope that you enjoy this Dezemba treat.

The Vanguard and Dibookeng Teams

4 Â Â

Contents

We Have to Blow by Panashe Chigumadzi

The Four of Us Kids by Abulele Mafuya

Sama Tayim’ by Andiswa Maqutu

Orange-flavoured Friend by Ntsako Mkhabela

Once Upon Summer by Nolundi Walaza

Selemo of the Brighter Days by Tshepo Leballo

Summertime by Ekow Duker

A Hat for Summer by Adaobi Nkeokelonye

What was He? by Nakhane Mavuso

Love, Nel by Siyabonga Ngwenya

Echo Me & Rise by Litha Hermanus

Dear Diary: Oh Summer, What a Mess we Made by Lelo Macheke

Love, It’s Complicated by Palesa Motsumi

Inside the Walls of Imagination by Smangele Mathebula

Lapho amanzi ake ema khona by Anne kaRudo

Mirror Romances by Thato Magano

A Casualty of Summer Nights and Intuition by Nombuso Nkambule

Greetings to you Summer - Kobo ea Rona by Mathe Ntsekhe

Author Biographies

15h17

Ebunzimeni, uhlal’ engumncedi wami “My sister, twists this time?” 15h20

Noma kumnyama, Yen’ ukukhanya kwami “Katlego, her head is too big. Buy me Darling. Six packets. Lebo, Shado, let’s do fast fast. She’s taking the bus tonight, we must finish by 8.” 15h22

Uyabonelela uYehova, uBaba wam “O le tlo mo gobatsa.” “Akere o nyako ba botse. O tla ba strong.” “Hayi, Oby, this is kaffir hare. We have to blow.” 15h35

Uhamba nami, uhlal’ eseduze kwami “My sister, Shado is also selling nice earrings. Even Tupperware. Show her Shado.” 15h38

Ngidle, ngidle, O Baba ngiyabonga “My sister, how can I reduce the heat? Your hair is too hard.” 15h49

Noma kumnyama, Yen’ ukukhanya kwami “Lebo, come to the back. You’re too slow and the way you are doing the front is not nice.”

“I told you, Lebo can’t braid.” 16h07

Ebunzimeni, uhlal’ engumncedi wami “Thabo, please, can’t you change the song?” 16h15

Uhamba nami, uhlal’ eseduze kwami “My sister. Please, keep your head up.” 17h35

Udeka itafula, phambi kwezitha zami “I’m telling you Shado, in Ghana, us women are on top when we make babies! We even negotiate the lobola.” 18h01

Udeka itafula, phambi kwezitha zami “Shado, look at how Lebo is braiding. Lebo, do it tight, not like someone who is sleeping.” “Mxm. Oby, we did ten of them at Mokgadi’s house yesterday. Flowergirls, freeze. Bridesmaids, yaki. Mother, straight-up. Mother-in-law, Rihanna. Bride, lace-front.” 18h25

Uhamba nami, uhlal’ eseduze kwami “Shado, kabe e le nna, kabe ke relaxa miriri e pele. Le bare ga a na maintenance, ga ya motswanela.” “My sister, next time you come I relax you, eh? Even s’curl, it’s nice.” 18h33 8

Noma kumnyama, Yen’ ukukhanya kwami “Shado, chips for me. Don’t worry about drinks, I have the 2L.” “My sister, give me that bottle so I can pour Fanta for you. What must Shado buy for you?” 18h59

Uhamba nami, uhlal’ eseduze kwami “It’s getting late Thabo, please lock the doors.” 19h11

Ebunzimeni, uhlal’ engumncedi wami “Oby, I’m going now. Ke lapile ke miriri e.” “I told you South Africans don’t want to work. I’m only gonna give you R50. Mxm, Tatenda will help us. “ 19h15

Uyabonelela uYehova, uBaba wam “Tatenda, I thought you were going to Beitbridge tomorrow?” 19h17

Uyabonelela uYehova, uBaba wam “Don’t worry my sister, 8 o clock we’ll finish. Tatenda is fast.” 19h33

Noma kumnyama, Yen’ ukukhanya kwami “My sister, you want to weewee? It’s behind the building. Take the key and this toilet paper. Shado, go with her.”

20h11

Ebunzimeni, uhlal’ engumncedi wami “Please Thabo, can’t you just reduce the volume?” 20h19

Uyabonelela uYehova, uBaba wam “My sister, why didn’t you tell them that you can also speak Sepedi?’ 20h35

Uhamba nami, uhlal’ eseduze kwami “My sister, you are nearly finished. Please boil the kettle Shado.” 20h48

Udeka itafula, phambi kwezitha zami “My sister, put your head up. You musn’t burn.” 21h11

Udeka itafula, phambi kwezitha zami “Do you like it my sister? You can also use SoftnSheen.”

It’s a few minutes before midnight on New Year’s Eve. We’re alone, the four of us kids. The adults have gone off to have their fun. We are in the grip of a boredom from which no amount of channel hopping can lift us. The living room floor is strewn with the evidence of our attempts to alleviate it – Uno cards, comic books, fluff from random outbreaks of pillow fighting. A shopping bag full of firecrackers lies open before us, awaiting its moment. Heads loll, limbs dangle, sighs break out intermittently. It’s impossible not to imagine the fun everyone else must be having. My cousin tosses the remote to the floor with a histrionic sigh. “This farts,” Thami says. “I’m so bored.” Three voices murmur their agreement. “Is it time yet to light the firecrackers?” Luvuyo asks. “It isn’t.” “Screw this,” says Mlu. “We should do something.” “Like what?” “Something, anything that isn’t sitting here waiting for time to pass.“ We’re up now, enlivened by the possibility of something happening. Mlu brings up a neighbour who has earned our distaste. He has refused to allow his children to play with us. Written us off as ‘a bad influence’. The plot against him is not long in emerging: he must be taught a lesson. “He must know,” Thami says, “just how bad we can be!” The air thickens with childish mischief. How shall he be taught, this neighbour, never to mess with us again? Laying as it is half-open and fully loaded, the bag of crackers suggests itself. We huddle round it. “He won’t even know what hit him.” We tip the bag over. Firecrackers are laid out on the living room floor. After some patchy strategising, a plan is conceived. Luvuyo is predictably averse, Thami and Mlu eager. I am giddy 12

with excitement. We choose our weapon, a jangle of crackers like sticks of dynamite connected by a green thread that explodes rat-a-tat-tat like a machine gun. We step out. The night is vast, warm, spangled with stars. We march down the street toward the neighbour’s house, perform a casual reconnaissance. “Coast is clear.” Thami and Mlu are poised at the front gate, Luvuyo and I just behind, counting in the New Year. “Five, four.” The match is struck. The flame licks the taut cord. The spark speeds toward the firecrackers clustered in Thami’s hand. “Three, two.” No time! He flings his arm. The crackers describe a glorious arc across the warm, vast, star spangled night. Over the fence, beyond the front stoep. They land, perfectly, on the neighbour’s welcome mat. We should run now, the four of us kids. We should scatter in all directions. We should hide behind the nearest shrubbery. There’ll be hell to pay if we’re discovered. But we are mesmerised, suspended between Thami’s throw and the detonation of the firecrackers. “One.”

Rat-a-tat-tat! Like a machine gun. From within the house sounds of fear and panic. We’re running, now. Giddy. The four of us kids.

It always came on the first, whether it was sunny or rainy. Those were the rules. It would be ushered in with the sting of a water balloon bursting on someone’s back. Sometimes it was with a bucket of water. Others times it was brought in with the spray of a hose. The person’s spine would arch as the water placed its icy lips on their middle and left a lingering wet kiss. And whoever brought it in always shouted, “Sama tayim’!” to announce its arrival. Only Sama Tayim’ could dry that wet kiss and remove the dripping sticky t-shirt material from the skin on their back. A wave of roaring laughter would follow. The only reminder of winter would be the cold water children and teenagers splashed each other with, like portable swimming pools. In the glassy sheets of water springing from buckets to t-shirts and shorts and heads, the sun would be seen laughing too. It would shine bright to celebrate the end of its winter hibernation. The township gravel would also get a break from the August winds that had lifted it to far away neighbourhoods and back. Then the older girls would come out in their micro shorts. Their brown legs protruding from the small material like chocolate and caramel icicles dipped in blue, red, yellow, green, orange, and purple goo that the men needed to lick, to cool from the heat of Sama. Fresh silky weaves and other haircuts styled by the razor, hung proudly from their heads. No one was ever brave enough to throw water on those heads. Those were the rules. Cellphones would be perpetually illuminated from the constant clicking of new plans being created and confirmed over texts:

Sphola: Eh, mpintshi ukuphi kanti, where are you? It’s Sama tayim’ sbari! Sbutja: Eish, Sama Tayim’ and ngisedladleni sbari, but I can leave now? Ziwaphi? Sphola: Nawe uyazi, you know, Mazi’s Car Wash…zwakala Sbutja:

Ke daar, Im there mpintshi…

And social media:

Zanele Khoza: Hanging out at Mazi’s Car Wash today! Yi Sama Tayim’ bangani!

Comments: Zinzi Madikiza: Ah friend, Car Wash??? Zinto za last year… Zanele Khoza: Kanti ziwaphi? Where should I be? Tshepo Tlou: koTornado’s, ladies! We’ll be there, chillas nyana, you ladies can just bring yourselves Zinzi Madikiza: Tjo! Uyapapa Tshepo! Wazifaka in our conversation. Lol! See you there! Zanele Khoza: Lol! Okay ke Tshepo

“Akekho ugogo!” children would sing along to passing cars sounding like mobile mega speakers, even if it was not true. Their little arms cradled precious bottles of cold liquids under strict instruction from the Pakistani shop owner to “Don’t break, no new”. Sometimes they couldn’t understand what the owner had said as his tongue tried to roll itself around the words, with syllables slipping on his saliva into his throat, never to be heard. And so the little delivery men relied on messages from grandmother and father to “Uze uyiphule nje”. Mouths had to be kept wet and fizzy sweet with the taste of Sama. 16

I idled the lollipop stick in my mouth a few moments longer than I should. Recalling the first time we met, I twisted it. Time and people with defined roles in our lives stand between the woody stick with traces of orange lollipop pressed on my tongue and my recollections of the time we climbed a hill and sat until sunset watching the east of Johannesburg go by. I think of you and summer when I think of the people who have saved my life. Selfindulgence might lead me to believe you may have been the one that got away, when the truth is that for that one summer, you were there to save my life. Chance and our obvious lack of social skills brought us into the orange lollipop flavoured summer. You were there to bask in the presence of my friend, who, despite her great beauty, was unable to see yours. So you enjoyed the light that she had momentarily allowed you. Our friend allowed you moments of bliss, pulling you in and dropping you at will. Then she was gone, to an afternoon class, just you and I, perfect strangers but for the fact that I knew your hearts love. My intention had been to spend the rest of the afternoon at the library finishing late assignments. Your intention was to follow our friend but the door was shut and you had no choice but to help me procrastinate. The dimly lit musty library seemed a disappointment to the cloudless blue sky and the yellow summer sun. I offered you one of the orange lollipops that I had bought at the 7-11, the innocent start of the friendship that would save my life, bringing me back into the summer. I had lived in an eternal winter. I had left a sombre frost in my path, a cold only detected by those who knew my heart. It was almost a year since I had stood at the grave of my brother, almost a year spent in the shadow of a grave. I had stood at the grave looking at the coffin that I had thought too big as it was big being lowered into the ground. You sat by me in the shadow, whenever she left you. I recognised the breeze you carried with you that only died whenever she was near. How you watched the way she danced when she walked. I offered you my cold lollipops to break the silence that hovered. Books and lollipops filled the summer we shared. We shared magic made real on pages of fancy. Nina sang into our indigo mood. We owned the city as it quietly gave in to us on late Â

19 Â

afternoon walks. You had stayed with me at the grave and filled me with lovesick jazz stands. You held my hand when I walked away from the grave. The woody stick lingers in my mouth and I try make out the taste of you, my orange flavoured friend.

20 Â Â

Once there was a girl who read poems, listened to music and worried about the world. She decided to take an adventure far away from her home somewhere at the tip of Africa. “There is something incredibly special about the African sun,” she had often told people from other bends of the earth. For a girl who spent most of her life tumbling in its glory, the prospect of an unforgiving Northern Hemisphere winter was daunting. There were so many stories of frozen lakes and frost bite that her mind had relegated most of them to myth. She packed all her winter coats and landed on the other side of the earth with nothing but the sense of adventure and hope. It was to be her longest winter. The irony was that she had always thought snow was romance. “It is the snow Christmas that I must have one day.” she had told her sister. This winter was the test of the imagination and reality. The kind that was filled with more than just cold, but despair and seclusion. Between the icy window panes, creamy foods and the decadence of chocolate she found herself receding into a hermit life. One morning while waiting for the hot water for her morning tea, when she had nearly given up life in foreign lands, she noticed that the birds had started to sing differently. But she quickly dismissed the thought. This was not the only strange thing that she had noticed that day. Even the mail was that much slower. Perhaps the mail man had simply trapped his fifth bicycle in the snow? She thought, with much sadness, about the love letters he was to carry to waiting hearts. Could this winter be any more ruthless in its conceit? These were not the only things amiss. The baker at the corner store was slow to make early morning bread and she also had not heard the sound of playing children. A few Fridays later, on her walk from the end week market she noticed a strangeness in the air. She then saw the brightness that she had tucked away in her consciousness as her thoughts had resigned to the grey backdrop of life. The day after that was even more impressive. There she was, the sun with all her splendour sweeping her glare through trees and through hearts. That summer started with jazz concerts in a park, it went to picnics, the glorious seaside and sweaty night bars filled with music. Winter may be the longest wait at a bus stop, the anticipation of tone of a phone call, the hallow of loneliness and heartbreak. It is, however, the hour before dusk. It gives the season of spring life, it is the bass guitar in songs, and it is the transit time at an International airport’s departures lounge. Even she, winter, knows now that all summers represent serendipity in the mornings, joy in the afternoon and kindred laughter on a beautiful summer night.

As the smell of a new life began, they would later tell me, the sun was smiling upon them. My mother, in the climax of birthing new life, must have been a mistress of the Gods because when she was crying and pushing, a father was nowhere. On that day of the radiant eye, my mother pushed, breathed and pushed some more. And when my hair was in view, outside they said the rain had come whilst the sun still shone. The flowers on the passage way to my mothers house were shining their bright colours. The children in the streets furthest from us laughed and played outdoors like it was their first time. The elders sat under the shades of trees for their sight had weakened under the gaze of the radiant eye. In the mornings most had braved the heat and sunlight, the only test of their faith.Their darker skin their only safe guard. My grandmother was amongst them. She had prayed until the Gods closed their ears and could listen no more. My mother, cursing, swearing and asking for water. All they could say was ‘harder’. Inside her, I tried to stretch my arms and legs to try and help her but I was too weak. When my head came out first, I had tried to speak but only the cries came out. I was blinded by light, for only darkness had been my solitude all those months. Outside the birds flew and sang for me. Their wings were flapping free from the days of the cold. I tried to talk to them but all I could do was cry some more. Elsewhere in the world, my absent father was wearing his good clothes with a lady on his arm. Earlier on that day, he had woken up naked as he had kicked off the covers in the middle of the night when he no longer needed them. He had bathed in cold water and sprayed on his noname perfume all over his body. And even though he’d had no need for a jacket over his good clothes, a man like him would endure the heat for style as he made no compromises even in the times of the brilliant eye. He would remember me tomorrow, and when he came, he had brought my mother roses only found that time of the year. She had smiled at him for she’d had no strength to scold and argue. They had asked for a name and when my mother suggested Tshepo, my father had vehemently refused and instead had whispered my name in my ear. 24

Selemo, he’d said to me, for I was a child of the brighter days. And to honour my father, a man lacking virtue, I want to be buried only under the gaze of the hotness. For the man gave me a blessing, I can speak to everything that blooms under the heat. The smiling eye of the earth is never too far from me.

“… and the living is easy… fish … are jumping…” She stopped mid breath, well before the cotton was high, and turned expectantly towards him. His head was hunched onto his shoulders and with his arms outstretched in a prayer-like posture, he looked like a mantis about to strike. “How was that?” she asked. Her speaking voice soft and slightly accented, so different from when she sang. “Who told you to stop?” he asked from the middle of the first row, staring at her through steepled fingers. Instinctively, she took a step back and edged closer to the black drapes behind her. His red velvet jacket could have sprouted from the matching upholstery and the shadows swirling at his feet only enhanced his likeness to a disembodied apparition. “I won’t hurt you.” “Come closer, into the light where I can see you.” She took two steps forward and came to a stop with her hip thrust forward in a deceptively aggressive pose. She waited for him to speak and rubbed the head of the microphone with her fingers, coaxing jagged thuds out of the banks of loud speakers. He winced as if in pain. “Stop that!” “I’m sorry.” He unfolded his long legs and leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his head cupped in his hands. He looked thoughtful, kind almost. “I want you to imagine swinging a metal bar in a vicious arc that intersects with my head.” He patted the back of his head to show exactly what he meant. “Why would I do that?” she asked slowly. “Why? Surely the thought had entered your mind already.” She blushed and felt the red blotches swarm up her neck like an infectious disease. His lips split in a sudden grin, more startling because it was so unexpected. “Now sing with the same grit and determination with which you wanted to maim me…” He looked down at the heavy Breitling draped around his wrist, “… a few minutes ago.”

Her chest began to heave as if she’d just run at full pelt down the aisles and vaulted onto the stage but she nodded and took a deep breath. Then without warning, the rich sound of a saxophone surrounded her, floating lazily above the bass beat and the wailing of the lead guitar. “Well, your Daddy’s rich…” “… and your Mama’s good looking…” She glanced up at the empty stalls, forgetting she was naked. Her feet moved of their own accord and as she sang, the creases stitching his forehead melted away and a rapturous smile spread across his face. “O hush, little Baby, don’t you cry…” Her voice took hold of ‘Baby’, caressing it fiercely and only reluctantly letting it loose to expire in the warm air. “One of these mornings… you’re gonna rise up singing… you gonna spread your wings… and fly to the sky…” “Sing!” he hissed. “Sing you bitch!” “but until then… nothing, nothing can harm you… with Daddy… and Mommy… standing by.”

This summer I am not ready, but the summer breeze blows. Everything unpleasant seems dissolved by the heat of summer’s light bulb. Old people feel young. The youth walk the beaches and lie bare on green grass. The young build castles on the beach sands. It’s the season of living in a light bulb. I walked past the hair stylist in Hove; no hello. The last we met, we cried together. Yet the same tears hang at the edge of my eyes still. My nose does not bridge them from flowing to the edge of my lips. Each teardrop is different, but these ones taste the same; they are same tears that ran down my cheeks last summer as I cupped my breast protectively at Wilbury Road, cupping them was no promise that they were going to stay. I knew I needed to get something off my chest, but not my breasts. “Bilateral Mastectomy. Adjuvant Chemotherapy. Alopecia…” he had said. It was almost impossible to hear these words and keep a dry eye. Today, I stepped out of my home, ready to embrace a little of the sun. Pencil on my brows, rashes on the skin, no need to wax anymore as all the body hair was gone. The beds of my nail black, fingers in brownish red paint. My colourful roomy dress hides the absence of weight. “You look beautiful Philipa!” my neighbour Ben yells from his wheel-chair two houses away. After cycles of treatment, long, drawn out recovery time, this was a compliment hard to digest. “My clothes just don't hang right without them anymore,”I had wanted to yell back. But my tongue was stuck to my teeth. I gave a quick smile and walked on. Since those soft silky mounds rose up like identical twins in my girlhood, it drew fascinated eyes to my chest. Thank God they don’t blink, haha! I had never really celebrated them until I found a lump; it was too late then. My summer hat was a canopy to my deforested head as I took a long walk through the beachside. Perspiration. Hot flushes. Tiredness. God, I am not enjoying this; I need protection from the sun. I pray for the rain to wash my sweat, for darkness to shield my life for now. I cried. Walking back to my seaside home in Hove, I open the door. The bunch of keys jingles and run up the stairs to feel a different texture of air. Summer hat off, I pull of the dress and unconsciously my hands go behind to unclip my bra. They only felt the skin on my back. Staring at my twin in the mirror, memories of our son whisper to me again. One hot afternoon in summer, I lay sunbathing. He returned from finding seashells in the sand. 30

“Mama, what does it feel like to have breasts?” He asked staring at me. “Son, what does it feel like not to have breasts?” I asked humorously. Now I know.

The walks. The lonely, slow walks that, at first, were performed so that when he returned, his body would not betray him with the salt and shimmer of sweat, started after the day of his fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s warning. The noise and dust of revelry disturbed a certain cog in him. Slight, but dangerous, if not attended to. It was not anger. No. He understood anger. He understood the heat with which it came. The brooding stares from his mother. This control she had. He had likened it to that of a fighting bull. Her face, calm as a breezeless, sunny morning but her body, starting from the veins of the neck always seemed like it was pulsing with something violent. She calmed him down this way. But this, this welling up and sometimes skittish searching of the eyes, this was nameless. And so he took to walking. And in his walks, he took to learning the sounds of the beasts. It was by accident at first. In a light moment of exhaling, he let out a sigh that produced a sharp sound that sounded like the birds. Secretly, he worked on perfecting it as he did not know what would be thought of him if people found out. Was this emulation of birds an act of sorcery? How could it be when it gave him so much pleasure. Surely even the evil felt a pinch of guilt when they performed their craft? But what about this shame? Was it its pinch masquerading as something less sinister? He cast these thoughts away and walked on, following long cracks on the ground. They did this as children, running like chicks separated from their hen until they reached the end, normally a gully. Proof that water once ran there. There had not been rains for years. He walked alone seeking comfort in melody that this new concoction of words could not give. He wandered. Not chasing cracks now, but a dull, indistinct loneliness. It was a longing for a sensation he himself had not quite understood and to burden it with a name; for a name could hinder one from easy, lilting joys and would be the end of the longing, thus the end of the pain. What was he then without the pain?

33 Â

It was on these very walks that he found Father, his back against the trunk of a dead tree and his head slumped over his chest as if he was inspecting a stain on his lap, or as if he was trying to smell his belly but found it difficult to reach. He laughed to himself then, a small snigger. Laughing at that position. Laughing at the lack of reach and flexibility. Laughing at the comic weightlessness of the arms. He called out to him from a distance. What was this man doing? He was well-known for his peculiarities, and Yubhali was expecting a hilarious quip to follow his call. He called out again and Father did not reply.

34 Â Â

‘Ntwana. I love you. And that’s all I ever wanted to do. But you chose to shut me out. Why couldn’t you let me be all I ever wanted to be to you?

That’s the letter I got three days after she killed herself. I had avoided opening it and waited until I was ready to face her words one last time. It feels like it was just yesterday we were enjoying balmy days and soaking up the rain when we were too high to even run for shelter. And now she’s gone.

Why couldn’t you face me? Why did my feelings no longer matter to you? How did I go from being everything to nothing? You became someone I could no longer reach.

When I met Nelisa last year we had both just transferred to a new school. I remember how defiant she was when were both told that my braids and her locks were inappropriate for the school’s image. The way we both shouted bullshit at the same time, I was surprised they let us stay. We became inseparable from that instant. I thought our love would always be enough. “I think I’m in love…,” she said quietly. I burst out laughing: “Yho! Wena? She got up. “Nel, wait. Ok I’m listening. Who’s this person that’s stolen you from me? Do they know that I’m not going to let you go without a fight?” I giggled. As she sat back down next to me, I rested my head and back on her thighs looking up at the clouds slowly dance by across the sky as she played with my braids. “Nguwe,” she whispered. I froze. Then before she could continue I jumped up. “Nel, no! I’m not that way. We’re close and all but I’m not that way… I’m sorry Nel. I’ll call you!” 36

And I ran. From that day I pretended she didn’t exist. I wasn’t ready. I just wasn’t ready yet. As I sit on the spot where I rejected her a year ago, I wanted more than anything to be with Nel. To tell her that I loved her and always have.

This letter is my last plea to you. I’m dead because I no longer have you. For me life started when you walked into a room, your smile was the sun on my back, your laughter refreshing like soft rain. I loved you beyond our physicality. My heart would speak and your soul would listen. Akhonto that makes sense when you’re no longer near me. As long as there is no space for you and me to be then I’d rather not be here. Funny how you always said “people are only free when and only when they are true to their authentic selves”. Wawundonelisa and in the life to come, I hope we can be all what we couldn’t be in this lifetime. Love Nel

And I looked up tears streaming down my face and a raindrop hit me on the lips.

My father died in the summer of ’94. He killed himself three times: pills, carbon monoxide, and a box-cutter. My then ten-year-old sister, Milani, discovered him in the garage, slumped inside his Camry. I was the second one there. He was a land surveyor. And given the budding road construction of our erstwhile homeland, he was hardly ever home when we grew up. I never saw him work; but at the funeral, his colleagues lauded him. “Patrick was the epitome of excellence,” his boss exclaimed, combining the last two syllables of ‘epitome’ into something that rhymed with ‘home’. While ‘Patrick’ was outstanding at his work, his colleagues failed to mention he was even better at the unspoken fringe benefits of his travelling job. Women.

My dad wasn’t good-looking. He was a rugby player in his youth. With little exercise and too much drink he'd become quite well-upholstered. The seams of whatever he wore were always under enormous pressure. “With that big nose, it's a definite open casket,” some joked after his passing. He also sported a thick forest of hair. And when a glade developed in its center, he never once felled its surrounding trees. Still, he was sunshine to all flowers. During high school rugby matches of his youth, for instance, it was not uncommon for the opposing team’s female fans to cheer him on. Occasionally, some would lift their skirts and remove all doubt regarding their intentions. “Patty sidestepped players superbly, but fell so easily into girls’ tackles,” my mother often teased. He'd been out-tackled in the end though.

He sat limp as Milani screamed, banging the wall repeatedly; her hands printing red with the blood from his wrists.

Mother was driven from hospital. The neighbours fetched her. They'd been summoned by the screams.

It's twenty years to the day. Lavender fills the air: a sanguine summer scent. I take it in as I walk my sister down the aisle. I’m her only family now. I offer her hand to Vincent, smiling, but still she senses the cloud is slowly returning. “Fight it, Lelo. Stay with us!” she whispers as I retreat. “I wrote you something,” she adds anxiously. She faces everyone. Her eyes are moist. “Echo Me and Rise, a poem for my little brother,” she begins after clearing her throat: The fire of his sun was dimmed by fate And none more than I know how it came so Cold beams from afar could not penetrate To the winter-clad soul that lay below

Where the chilly shrill wind – with howls of ‘No!’ – Buffeted as it stood guard at the gate And the forlorn flames with the pallid glow Of faded embers could not passage make

Yet the Golden Sun warred long with the Sentry Whose stone-cold stare still forbade Her entry Though His face now grew wide-ish at the jaw As curled lip dripped into smile from the thaw

Now a Golden Sun swells and sails the skies And beams aloud: Child, Echo Me and Rise!

41 Â

2:18am The memories of Summer seep through the shadows of the moon’s light and manifest themselves in the form of dizzying epiphanies. They narrate my dreams. They increase my heartache. They keep me praying. They keep me craving. Summer turned my dreams into realities I could hold on to, but, never keep.

2:44am I cannot seem to not sleep without mourning what we were and what killed us. I mean, what I bought from Zara with my father’s bonus became the culture of my skin. My girlfriends twerked all night long in their booty shorts, while their niggas blew money in their pretty faces like cocaine dust hoisted into nostrils.

“I love you’s” were passed between friends and enemies alike, like that trifle passed around the family table that one Christmas we thought Daddy would stay. Oh Summer, You made us think we were beautiful. You made us think we were immortal. 3:00am I am holding onto my stomach dearly, as it hurts out of shame and inadequacy. 3:17am Mmh. I’m thinking about my lover right now. I had gladly accepted as Summer coyly pulled the wool over my eyes and gave me the space to ignore and forget my attraction to loving fractured people, so I made a home out of a broken man’s arms and I called him my lover. I loved him for who he was and hated him for what he did. Broken men are tempted men. And tempted men love differently in the Summer time.

We were famous for our turbulence. After finding out and arguing about his romantic inconsistencies, he would come to where I lay. He’d ask:

you asleep? I’d reply:

maybe... - then we would hold each other tighter, caught up in romantic constriction. I never knew why he held me. I never understood why I held him so tight either. Perhaps, it was because we were trying to keep our fragmented selves together.

4:52am It feels as though the absence of Summer signals the beginning of some sort of sinister death. I woke up from the façade of Summer too late. The consequences of these memories do more than just occupy my mind and my heart. They bind the hands and feet of my conscience, removing the fallacy of fairytale, impairing my ability to make those life-saving decisions. Decisions such as running away from my own betrayal in thinking that Summer made an immortal out of me. Out of us. 5:48am I gag. 6:09am I am unconscious, waiting patiently, lovingly and mercifully for the sun’s rise so that these memories may forsake my mind, relinquish my body, and let forgiveness be my new God.

An unconscious being is a being who is not able to take responsibility for the consequences they create for themselves. Summer gave me an alibi as I disregarded myself and became a carbon copy of my absurdity. Why don’t I ever seem to think about saving enough of my soul for the day the sunsets on me?

Being black has been a statement to my upbringing and so far, it’s been galvanized to be a vehicle of uniform thinking. That thinking applied to love. I grew up around my older cousin’s friends in the late 80s, when Toni Braxton was the most beautiful, dark chocolate painted singer around. “Unbreak my heart” and “Breathe again” they would sing with as much heart-wringing passion as they did with when they sang “He wasn’t man enough for me” and “Spanish guitar”. Then, little did I know that in the years to come, her music would remind me of the conversations that I’d hear in my lonesome head in the times that I’d be forced to plug my ears with cotton wool, while Ausi Dineo and her close friend spoke emphatically of boys and their tricks. One time, I came back from school, as was usual, to find my mother crying hysterically, which was not usual. I had not seen Mama so crippled with sadness. Feeling every bit the helpless child, the most my little thoughts could muster was to offer her a cup of sugar water. I mean that is black people’s ‘miracle’ pill in almost most cases. You have a headache, sugar water, you have a heartache, sugar water, you get too excited, get sugar water. The child I was, I felt inadequate as I offered my carefully stirred cup of sugar water to my rock of a mother. She had always said to me that to be a woman, a real one, you must never cry in front of your children. So, I knew, given the current state that she was in, something had been thrown deep into a well of insecurity. It frightened me. “Mama, ke eng?” I said softly as I could while holding my breath. “Mama, please answer me.” She looked up at me and I looked into her red-rimmed eyes. They explained it all. Love.

“We are never born to dislike one another.” That was what my gran used to tell me as a little girl. Now, as a grown woman with many of my own loves to tell of, those words rang insistently ‘til I picked up the phone to call my mom. “Mama”, I said, “o kae? Ke hopotse nkgono.” She kept quiet. When I came to visit and slept in my old room, I heard Katlego in the faraway corridor, mumbling as he informed my mother of my apparently indecent approach to finding a spouse. My brother was exactly like a husband who was not at all satisfied with his life choices, but found instead refuge in taking it all out on us. Like a child, he loved to snitch. In that moment, reflections, ounces of our childhood came flashing through my mind. The memories brought on raw emotions that flooded through my finger tips and began to shake from the sole of my feet. The memory of abuse was visiting me again. All I could think of was sugar water.

In mid-sentence, I stopped. It wasn’t until he asked me to come see the sun that I realised that winter had left him cold. His face, always hidden behind his laptop. He stopped to touch my bare shoulders. I was wearing the top he loved and we exchanged loaded glances. It all felt strange and new at the same time. I never trusted anyone I loved to stay. And I kept having these thoughts over and over again. Why could he never let go and let me cradle his sorrow? I was lost in thought. The sun cradled my hope and I felt illuminated. I had exactly what I wanted. We sat quietly by the window, and flashes of light carved a path paved with my face. His love, however wondrous, felt like a blister inside my mouth. I marvelled as I became undone. How can someone so magnificent calmly participate in my sweet destruction? I stared deeply outside and I disappeared into the vision of all that pushed me inside nature. “Love?” he said. his voice dripping of tenderness. “Where’d you go?” He glowed with peaceful intent. I knew to enjoy the moment. “Nowhere my sweet,” I replied. I was just thinking of my mother and what it feels like to be trapped inside hope. To wonder if tomorrow will catch you. Something happened to my thinking when I turned fifteen. It was like I was putting my skin back on again. He looked puzzled. “Okay let me explain”, I said quickly. The explanation was long winded so I had to figure out how to make it poetic. I smiled. I used to imagine that my mother tumbled through the weeds of life holding her breath as if the next one was owed to her. She liked looking at the glare of light that somehow used to be or reminded her of her life. As if she couldn’t hold it anymore. Her hands were neither wide enough nor gentle enough to caress the glare and hold the light. “Are you following?”

“Yes, love carry on,” he said. My mom had always wondered what had happened. There was a time she danced joyously within herself and the next moment it was gone. Her brain, nothing but supple weight in her head. Her heart, nothing but a carriage of lies. All strewn about and turning her light into a blinding glare that could not be touched by memory. “You know her grandmother used to cradle her when she was dizzy from too much sunlight,” I said as I skipped outside the daze of poetic license. How beautiful, the taste of memory. I had to slowly wean myself off the cuddle of remembrance. “Let’s eat,” I said. I was once again lost in the sun. We sat watching it, illuminating more of what we hoped for than what we thought we lost or were about to lose. I loved how much I just floated, how much I felt in the sun.

Aye noma angayi? Yiwona mbuzo owawumudla ngaphakathi uPastor Philasonke Radebe ngenkathi ephuma embhedeni ngeSonto ekuseni ngo half past six. Ubuthongo besebukade buphelile ngenxa yokushisa kwelanga langoDecember. Amashidi ombhede eshwabene engathi aphuma emlonyeni wethole, kusho kona ukuthi sekudlule izinsuku ezintanthu engazihluphi ngokundlula umbhede. Wathi jeqe amehlo kwincwajana ehlezi phezu kwekhabethe eliseceleni kombhede, ehlangothini lomkakhe uPortia. Wavuka embhedeni wayovula amakhethini; ukukhazimula kwesibhakabhaka kwamhlaba amehlo wacwayiza, kuzwakala umsindo wezinambuzane namaxoxo. Ingadi igcwele amaxhaphozi emvula yangayizolo. Kodwa phakathi emzini kaRadebe bekukhala ibhungane kusho kona ukuthi umkakhe uPortia uphume ngomnyango engamazi noma uyophinde abuye yini na. “Angiwafuni amahemu-hemu azolahla ibandla”, kwasho uReverend Joel Shabalala umsunguli weTrue Faith Ministries ngenkathi efikile ngolweSine ezomtshela ukuthi incwajana le izofundwa enkundleni yabefundisi bebandla. Uthe esehamba wamyala ngaleyondlela aziwa ngayo umRev ethi; “Ushefe phela ndoda, kufanele uyidide i-enemy uma ihlasela umuzi wakho. Musa nawe ukuba yisipoki. Khumbula uMatewu “gcoba ikhanda lakho, ugeze ubuso.” Washayiwa amahloni uPhilasonke, wayeziqhenya phela njengomjitha-mfundisi wesimanjemanje oneminyaka engu30 ongasoze awugqoke ukhololo. “Ngiyezwa baba,” esho emvalelisa umfundisi omkhulu. Wayenalo ke pho umRev ikhono lokutinyela ngezwi ebese ekuhlekisa. Ngenkathi uPhilasonke ethatha ubuholi beStudent Christian Organisation (SCO) kaStandard 10 e JC Nzima High wangena ngaphansi kwephiko lakhe umRev. 52

Ngalezozinsuku yena nabanye abazalwane bebandla labafundi abasindisiwe lalizimisele ukungena ngesango elincane ezulwini ngokuziphatha kahle ikakhulukazi ngasocansini. “Ishidi longashadile malibe mhlophe bazalwane” eshumayela uPhilas. Kuyothi lapho abanye o-brother behlulwa yimizwa abalawule uPhilas ngomthandazo weHubo 119 vesi 9 “Bawo malibe yi-stop sign engcwele izwi lakho. Sihlenge enkohlakalweni. Iba yileyo shawa ebandayo Moya oyingcwele.” Yena nentombi yakhe yokuqala uZandile Mbambo babeyisibonelo kubanye abafundi bezimisele ukulinda baze bashade. Kodwa iqiniso ukuthi umlilo wemizwa wawuloke uvutha kubo ngenxa yothando. UPhilas wayethi uma elele ebusuku alubone ngamehlo engqondo usuku labo lomshado bezinikela ngemizimba. Noma engakaze ahlangane nowesifazane ngaleyondlela, uPhilasonke wayenesiqiniseko sokuthi ngalobobusuku babezoqhuma izilwimi zoMoya. Wayezibona esingathwa amathanga afudumele kaZandi, umthondo wakhe uncibilikelela ngaphakathi kuleyondawo yakhe emanzi bendiza ezulwini elincance. Lemicabango yayiyimfihlo yakhe yedwa uPhilas, ethandaza njalo ukuthi inkosi imuhlanze kulesono senyama. Babesinda nje ngoba bethanda ukufunda kanti futhi abazali baZandi babengazwile. Ukuphuma kwabo esikoleni bathatha izindlela ezingafani bahlukana. uZandi wathola ibhasari yokufunda iBComm Accounting enyuvesi yaseKapa. UPhilas yena wakhetha ukuya eBible College wazinikela kumsebenzi wenkosi ebandleni likamRev. Abaphindanga baxhumana noZandi kepha nje wezwa kuthiwa wayiyeka inkonzo enyuvesi. Inhliziyo kaPhilas yabuhlungu ngoba wayengalilahlanga ithemba lokuthi bobuye babuyelane. Kodwa ke kuthiwa uThixo nguye umhlahlandlela ngoba umfazi wakhe uPortia Nzimade wamthatha khona enkonzweni bashada emva konyaka wokwazana. Emshadweni wamemezela uRev Shabalala ukuthi ushiyeka ebusheni uPhilas, nguPhilasonke lendoda ethatha umfazi. Angeke kuthiwe umshado wabo wawuvutha abalangabi, kodwa wayengumfazi oqotho ofanelekile uPortia. Okubalulekile ukuthi babewakha ngomthandazo umuzi wabo. Kwakubahambela kahle kanti kuzothi kuqala unyaka lo kwafika umyalezo othi uZandi ubuyile ngakubo, ubulawa umdlavuza webele udinga umthandazo.

Mhlawumbe wayedidwa ukubuya kwesithandwa sakudala uPhilasonke kodwa lalingadluli isonto engayanga ukuyobeka umthandazo kuboZandi. Kancane kancane ezinyangeni ezilandelayo nemithandazo yomuzi wakwaRadebe yayisigxile kakhulu kulolusizi lwesithandwa sikaPhilas sokuqala. Nawe ungumfazi mhlawumbe wawuzophelelwa ububele ubhale incwajana njengalena kaPortia: “Brothers and Sisters in Christ, I must seek your help as the enemy is misleading my beloved husband with emotional adultery.” Washiya ikopi eceleni kombhede mhla ephuma emzini wakhe ekhala. Kodwa incwajana lena yayingeyona into eyayimhlupha emoyeni ngalomhla evuka yedwa emzini wakhe uPhilasonke. Phela namhlanje umngcwabo kaZandi. Aye noma angayi? Yiwonambuzo obumudla uRadebe. Zehla izinyembezi zendoda icabanga igugu lasebusheni balo; inhliziyo igaya izibozi.

I feel his eyes on me for the entire sixty kilometres that I was in the back of his car. A number of times our eyes meet but he gives no signal that the glances are meant to entice. Uncomfortable and sporadic at first, but now with the confidence of a seductress in action, I play coy. I look up and smile wryly. No words exchanged but all is confirmed. Home alone, a week later, a timid knock at the door unravels my world. The week long anticipation culminates. I respond with nervous angst at the thought of fantasies fulfilled. “You have amazing skin, hey. Tastes so soft and sweet, like I’m licking a Macadamia Nut Brittle off a spoon on a hot summer day,” he says. “Haha, really? That’s a first.” I say with excited innocence. “Haven’t I told you before you have amazing skin? Then I should know to tell you as often as the thought crosses my mind.” “You’re making it hard for one to see past the stars here with your charm offensive.” My desires fulfilled, we lie on the floor naked. The sweat, a collision of lovemaking and the summer heat, driving me into a state of delight and causing me to forget how this moment came to being. I consider what just happened and I desperately want to ask. I wonder if he knows how I’ve gone against myself to be with him, knowing all I now know about him. I let the thought slide and come back to the moment. I take him in. The definition of his torso, the left profile and shade of his buttock, the girth of his spent manhood, the round darkness of his lips and his efficiently shaped, balding head. I smile at this discovery and record the moment. Lying on his back, pensive, one hand resting on his torso and the other caressing the inside of my thighs, he’s looking up at the roof. A phone ring breaks the silent commute. I make no attempt to move. Suddenly anxious, he reaches over and picks it up, tilting the screen so I can have a view of the caller identity. He lets it ring for a while. “You not going to pick it up?” 56

“You know what she wants.You want me to ruin this moment to talk to her?” “What if something’s happened to the kids?” I say dejected and turning to look outside the window.

A week and a half passes and I haven’t heard from him. He’s become the only one who understands. I suffer in silence at the longing. My friend Lwandle calls. “Have you heard the news?” . “What are you talking about? What’s happened? What news?” I respond, thwart and short. “Oh crap, sorry to be the one to tell you. Just found out Francois passed away a week ago.” Lwandle says, satisfied with himself. I writhe, stunned. Frustration, longing, misery. I let the phone go, smashing into little pieces on the floor.

Your typical twenty something city girl, Blue was determined to mirror the life of everybody’s Fashion Favourite, Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and The City. Blue wanted the Big Closet and the Big Love. She had one of them. She was fun, fashionable and flirty, but, like Carrie, the idea of being single past 30 made her palms sweat (she was already 27). In order to get to the Big Love she had to navigate her way through some losers and loonies. Enter Mr. Green. Blue met him on Tinder. She was purposefully alluring, but she couldn’t match his eagerness. On their very first date he was like a dog on heat with that pink bit hanging out! He certainly was not going to receive the prized invite upstairs for a ‘night-cap’. “It’s for the fiends, the devil’s app,” she conclusively remarked as she deleted Tinder and Mr. Green out of her life, permanently. But soon she got bored and wanted the thrill of online dating again, so she gave the app one more go. Next came Mr. Yellow. He was a perfect gentleman on the first night and he didn’t try any funny stuff. He was witty and wealthy and owned a home in the South of France. She daydreamed about the holidays they would take together should he ever casually ask her, “Have you ever been to St Tropez?” To her disappointment, he never asked, but he did keep asking to see her all the time. He was too persistent, and very soon her amour became her stalker. “He needs to chill out,” she thought after ignoring his 17th call of the day, so she sent him the ‘let’s see other people’ break-up text. His response was to show up at her workplace the next day red-eyed and uninvited and she decided never to use Tinder again! Shaken by that odd experience, she switched off from the world of internet dating for some real world reflection. Why was she getting the creeps while other girls’ lust loves flourished? “Some girls just have all the luck,” she thought pitifully to herself. The summer and her youth were fast passing her by, the summer festive fever was spreading like a wildfire, so of course it had to be reckless and unforgettable. “Ke Dezemba Blue, and what’s that without a chew!” This hype-mantra that used to have her hopping on flights to Cape Town and sharing lips with tall glasses of something (or someone) strong and delicious was beginning to dissipate. Yes, she was young, but she was also mature and she realised she didn't need summer loves or champagne campaigns to prove to herself that her latest ‘Dezemba’ was a waste. Coming to that conclusion by herself gave Blue peace with her decision not to become another casualty of summer nights and intuition. She was happy to spend her summer the way

only she decided to, and who knew, perhaps next summer she’d have Mr. Right to tell you tales about.

I have a hot tale to tell. A glorious tale that for some warped reason reminded me of you —or rather, the idea of you. To be precise, you as a medley of songs, sang by the eternal living: your Marvin Gayes with healing notes fused and grounded by voices that lead you directly to my ancestral spirits— balimo ba ka! Please don’t get lost. Here I am talking about the likes of Frank Mooki Leepa; a man who understood long before we could see the end of apartheid that, we, the descendents of Ham, were made for joy; and, indeed, a huge part of the struggle was about getting to the point of being “Malala pipe, no more!” Or simply put, the struggle was about self-actualisation. And, in relation to the tale I want to share with you, this actualisation, extends to the body. The body and its need to be emancipated: to truly be free to feel that which it must and was meant to fully experience. At this point, I do realise that I am holding you in suspense, but it is because I have no clue where to begin with my tale. Suffice to say, all was happening in the small haven I call my bed. I was in the act of satisfying a very basic urge—or doing what in Sesotho translates to sharing blankets, ho arolelana likobo. I was sharing my blankets with my friend, Mudiwa, from the other side of Limpopo—not the side closer to home, to be convincing that Clarence Carter can be used as pun. But, I refuse to let technicality get in the way. Not when I am sharing something so important. Tsala, I was in an act of being extremely “neighbourly”. The mboro was inside me, and with every thrusting motion, I was edging towards speaking in tongues. This I know and remember vividly. What I can’t quite remember is the exact moment that I asked Mudiwa to give me the vernacular name of this titillating organ that was inside me. It was all surreal. My body was in a total state of bliss. I was between two worlds, communing with the living and dead. Yet, I was also present. I was rupturing and rapidly understanding why the season of ultra-warmth is glorified. I was simultaneously ‘coming’ while grasping deeply why the heat factor makes you a cherished season. Afterwards, smile laden, like Semomotela, I understood that some things are as natural as the earth orbiting the sun. I was appreciating that, you, summer, must be embraced with 62

enthusiasm not merely because of the heat you bring. But because of the soulful dimension you bring, which colours and scents what beautiful sex is and should be. Haha…now, do you see why I had to write this letter to you? You, my friend, based on a glorious moment of pleasure, I coupled you up with sex; since you both share some blanket in Sesotho (pun intended).

Your Friend, Mathe-maloli

Author Biographies In order of appearance:

Panashe Chigumadzi Panashe Chigumadzi is a womanist, passionate about creating new and nuanced narratives, in the realm of fiction and non-fiction. She has recently completed her first novel, Sweet Medicine. Panashe is the founding editor of Vanguard Magazine, a platform which aims to speak to the life of young black women in post-apartheid South Africa. Prior to Vanguard, she worked as a media executive at the Africa Business News Group, where she also wrote a column for Forbes Woman Africa and worked as a TV journalist for CNBC Africa. She has spoken on the media in Africa at events such as TEDxJohannesburg and the Ars Elektronica Festival in Austria. In 2013 she became a member of the World Economic Forum’s Global Shaper Community. She has a Bachelor of Accounting Science from the University of Witwatersrand in Johannesburg, and is now reading for an honours in Development Studies at her alma mater.

Abulele Mafuya Abulele Mafuya is a writer based in Cape Town.

Andiswa Maqutu Andiswa Onke Maqutu is a writer and the founding curator of Black Women Be Like. Her work has appeared in ELLE Magazine, The African Roar Anthology, Storymoja, Storymondo and Poetry Potion. She has written and published a book, Black Women Be Like (2014), which is an anthology of short stories introducing the challenges, triumphs and experiences of twenty-first century black women in South Africa.

The book is part of a series of books, short stories, poetry, visual and audio artworks to be produced by black African women from around the continent, to present more nuanced depictions of these women. Partners in the series include Storymoja and African Youth Journals. Andiswa is always writing, and when she is not writing creatively, she writes factually as a business journalist for one of the oldest business dailies in South Africa.

Ntsako Mkhabela Ntsako Mkhabela is a theatre writer, director and producer with honours degrees in dramatic arts and development sociology from the University of the Witwatersrand. Mkhabela is director of Miyela - a youth civil society organisation working to get young people to recognize their role and responsibility as active citizens, the organisations runs tutoring programs in under performing schools and launched the Mzansi Spelling Bee in 2012.

Nolundi Walaza Traveller. Logophile. Writer and passionately curious.

Tshepo Leballo Tshepo is an IT Sales consultant by day, and by midnight, a marauder of books with dreams of one day writing a paragraph akin to the great Chinua Achebe.

Ekow Duker He says: “I’m an oil field engineer turned banker turned author with a heartfelt passion for writing. I enjoy dual Ghanaian and South African citizenship, which allows for a certain ambiguity in outlook, except for when the national soccer teams play against each other and I have to declare a preference. My time in the oil industry took me to the fetid swamps of the Niger delta and the harsh expanses of the Sahara desert, with lengthy stopovers in several countries in between. The most rewarding

part of this decade-long adventure was the insight I gained into the astonishing similarities that exist between our cultures. Since leaving the oil field, I’ve worked mainly as a corporate strategist. I’ve been extremely fortunate in that this work draws heavily on story telling. I believe that when one tells an intriguing story, whether with numbers or with words, the listener is almost compelled to look on the world differently once the story is done. My careers, wildly different though they may be, have taught me the discipline necessary to persevere on my writing journey despite numerous setbacks and rejections along the way. I was lucky enough to sign a three book contract with Picador Africa, an imprint of Pan Macmillan earlier this year. My first two novels ‘White Wahala’ and ‘Dying in New York’ were published simultaneously in July 2014 with the third manuscript (not the subject of this Morland Scholarship submission) to be delivered to the publisher by the 15th of January 2015. I enjoy cooking and spending time with my children Nathan and Noemi. Unfortunately my wife Thando passed away early in 2012. I gave up trying to bring down a stubborn golfing handicap long ago and now divide my time unevenly between working at the bank and writing.”

Adaobi Nkeokelonye Adaobi Nkeokelonye is a social-development researcher currently based in Nigeria . As an avocation,she explores linkages between literary fiction/non-fiction novels and International Development issues on her site http://fictioningdevelopment.org. Follow her on twitter: @adankeokelonye.

Nakhane Mavuso Nakhane Mavuso (born 03 February 1988) is an artist born in a small town in the Eastern Cape called Alice. He was raised predominantly in Port Elizabeth until his family moved to Johannesburg when he was 15 years old, where, after almost failing to write a critical essay, his English teacher called him aside and said: “Nakhane. You want to be a writer. This is not an essay. This is a short story.” And thus began his writing career. He went on to study for a Bachelors of Arts in Literature, but did not complete that. He is now a musician. He is now a writer. 66

Siyabonga Ngwenya “Having recently turned 30, I am learning to navigate my way out of the 20s and into this new decade of my life. I am writer, bookworm and keen traveller. My interests are varied but if it’s Hip Hop, Africa, gender equality, race relations, design, body and beauty politics then I’m interested. I can sometimes be seen with a camera when the amateur photographer in me decides to awaken and I still have hopes of producing and directing my own short film. I’m excited about being a black woman in 21st century Africa as disconcerting as it can be at times, I still believe we’re starting to take our place in the world whether the world is ready or not.”

Litha Hermanus Born in Mthatha during the Independence of Transkei, Litha Hermanus is a student in the Masters in Creative Writing Programme at Wits University, and a writer at the doorstep of his career. He fell in love with words through writing letters to family and friends as a young boy, a relationship later strengthened through reading such titles as Roald Dahl's 'Danny the Champion of the World' and Enid Blyton's 'The Famous Five' series. With time, Litha's love for words expanded to music and lyrics; he composed rap songs, including a recording with MXO (Mxolisi Lokwe) on his first offering, 'Another Day'. Though previously unpublished, he has long been invested in writing short stories and poems. His entry for 'Summerx500' is a hybrid of the two forms. Away from the pen, he has been an International Flight Attendant and lived abroad in the Far East as an English Teacher. He has also worked as Content Producer for Talk Radio 702, but while he completes his studies, he produces only on the weekends for the 5FM Weekend Breakfast Show.

Lelo Macheke Lelo Macheke is an observer, participant and narrator of the reality he experiences in postApartheid South Africa. He is also known as the “SuburbanZulu”- an embrace of his hybrid identity. Lelo is currently studying Philosophy and English at Rhodes University.

Palesa Motsumi Palesa is a writer based in Cape Town and is the founder of Sematsatsa Library.

Smangele Mathebula Smangele Mathebula is a book lover and literary activist. She is the co-founder of the Dibookeng book initiative.

Anne kaRudo Anne kaRudo is the pseudonym for a young writer based in South Africa.

Thato Magano Thato Magano is a partner and marketing and communications manager at Vanguard Media, the publishers of Vanguard Magazine, where he is also a contributor. In a previous life, he was a strategy consultant and marketing dude at Cadburyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. He is a transitional griot trapped in the comforts of saxon realities and longing for the freedoms of civilisations past. A liker of things and yet prisoner to none. A revolutionary non sequitur! Motho wa Batho fela!

Nombuso Nkambule Nombuso Nkambule is a real-life modern day princess of the Valoyi clan. A product of the rich Limpopo soil, she is your go to new girl on opinions on boys, health and fitness and oestrogen. A born writer, doctor in the making and struggling model who is just trying to survive the bone throw in these Jozi streets.

Mathe Ntsekhe Mathe Ntsekhe (formerly Maema) is a postgraduate student in the Department of Computer Science at Rhodes University.

68 Â Â