How Not To Live

For some strange reason the humorous and funny blog post I had crafted in my mind died before it was born. Instead I am left with the reflection that came to me years ago when I read a novel by C.S Lewis, the author of The Chronicles of Narnia among other great works. But before I get to his book I want you to imagine something.

Imagine Time is an illusion. Imagine, if you can, that the past, present and future all happen at once. You can assign whatever reality you want to this concept, be it God, the Divine or the delusions of your dear author. But to whatever entity you imagine Time to be, imagine this entity is a silver circle, with no beginning and no end, merely flowing infinitely from itself and from itself; never-ending, never-ceasing, never-starting. We shall call this circle Eternity (This in and of itself is another difficult concept, what is Eternity? But let us leave that for another day, let us not chase too many rabbits down too many holes at once).

Now imagine a straight line, reaching from somewhere and stretching to somewhere and in your mind that line touches that circle at one point and one point only. In Mathematics, we would call that point a Tangent and it would be the only point in the entire universe that the circle touches the line. But in our example where the circle is Eternity, that line is no longer just a tangent, but the Present. There and only there should life be lived. There and only there should the focus of our desires and our passions and our joys be concentrated, there and only there does regret have no power and fear no strength.

Years ago, an Australian man gave this example to me and I would like to boast that I understood what he meant as we sat by the fire in middle of winter in Bulawayo. My mind grappled to see what all this nonsense about circles and lines meant. He could see it in my eyes and I remember he smiled at me and said, 'simply put, Bongani, it means Live in the present moment'. I smiled with joy; now that was concrete enough for me, an instruction that could be made sense of and lived to but as often with these things, it is easier said than done, even more so when the logic behind was fuzzy to my teenage mind.

And then this is where we return to C.S Lewis. In his book, The ScrewTape Letters whose 'author' is a Senior Demon in Hell and is in the form of Letters to his nephew Wormwood who is on earth trying to capture a human soul; ScrewTape writes the following advice:

The humans live in time but our Enemy destines them to eternity. He therefore, I believe, wants them to attend chiefly to two things, to eternity itself, and to that point of time which they call the Present. For the Present is the point at which time touches eternity. Of the present moment, and of it only, humans have an experience analogous to the experience which our Enemy has of reality as a whole; in it alone freedom and actuality are offered them. He would therefore have them continually concerned either with eternity (which means being concerned with Him) or with the Present — either meditating on their eternal union with, or separation from, Himself, or else obeying the present voice of conscience, bearing the present cross, receiving the present grace, giving thanks for the present pleasure.

Our business is to get them away from the eternal, and from the Present. With this in view, we sometimes tempt a human (say a widow or a scholar) to live in the Past. But this is of limited value, for they have some real knowledge of the past and it has a determinate nature and, to that extent, resembles eternity. It is far better to make them live in the Future. Biological necessity makes all their passions point in that direction already, so that thought about the Future inflames hope and fear. Also, it is unknown to them, so that in making them think about it we make them think of unrealities. In a word, the Future is, of all things, the thing least like eternity. It is the most completely temporal part of time — for the Past is frozen and no longer flows, and the Present is all lit up with eternal rays. 

...to be sure, the Enemy wants men to think of the Future too — just so much as is necessary for now planning the acts of justice or charity which will probably be their duty tomorrow. The duty of planning the morrow’s word is today’s duty; though its material is borrowed from the future, the duty, like all duties, is in the Present. This is now straw splitting. He does not want men to give the Future their hearts, to place their treasure in it. We do. His ideal is a man who, having worked all day for the good of posterity (if that is his vocation), washes his mind of the whole subject, commits the issue to Heaven, and returns at once to the patience or gratitude demanded by the moment that is passing over him. But we want a man hag-ridden by the Future — haunted by visions of an imminent heaven or hell upon earth — ready to break the Enemy’s commands in the present if by so doing we make him think he can attain the one or avert the other — dependent for his faith on the success or failure of schemes whose end he will not live to see. We want a whole race perpetually in pursuit of the rainbow’s end, never honest, nor kind, nor happy now, but always using as mere fuel wherewith to heap the altar of the future every real gift which is offered them in the Present.

I remember reading that passage so many years ago and suddenly the story about a Circle and a Line came into clear focus and made perfect sense. Epiphany is a word one should rarely ever use but that moment seemed to clear the dullness from around me as I truly realized what my Australian friend had meant all those years ago. A life given to the past is lost in the regret that captures its heart. A life longing to the future is lost in the imaginations and fears of a Time that has not, and might not, ever arrive. And for so many of us that is how we live; captured by the points of the Circle that our lives are no longer in contact with or longing for the ones yet to come, and forgetting the one part that is Real: The Present moment.

I wish I could say I knew how to fully live in the Present Moment; that I had figured out the secret of the Universe and the mysteries of Life and Joy. But alas, your author is still plodding his way along trying to figure it all out. One thing I do know is how not to live: in the Future or in the Past.

Remembering Home, Remembering You

I remember the sun peeking over the horizon as if it was scared of announcing a new day. But already the light of its glory has set the sky on fire and the day has begun. The rooster crows in agreement and I lie in bed, this feeling of deliciousness inside me. The joy at being alive, of being here, inhabiting this space, this time, being home. Outside, the dew covers the delicate fronds of grass and hangs from the rose petals, a delicate beauty dripping like diamonds from the soft pink of the buds.

I remember that beauty. Beauty of the garden I kept myself, worked every Saturday to water and mulch. I remember the stark blue of the sky in winter. Cloudless and stretching like the mind of God to the ends of the world as I lay in the grass watching it. Innocent. Guileless. Clueless. My world was limited to the borders of the city I had been born in, Bulawayo: the place of killing. I began each day as I always did; a bowl of porridge. On a good day, with a tablespoon of peanut butter and generous amounts of sugar. I never understood those who put butter in their porridge, I was always a peanut butter guy. I haven't had porridge in almost ten years.

I remember the avenues of Bulawayo lined with jacaranda's in October. That is the image most tourists have in their heads, the image that a quick Google search will give to you: streets covered in a carpet of purple, drops of perfume falling from the trees to the ground where they lay waiting to be squished by the wheels of cars or your feet as you passed by on your way to the shops to buy a loaf of steaming fresh bread from the Hot Bread Shop. But an image less know about is an image of the Flamboyants that bloom in early summer and explode in a red as deep as the eyes of the setting sun. Some are isolated trees, lost amongst the crows of the Jacaranda's, but some are armies that line Cecil Avenue on it's way to meet Hillside Road, standing guard over the narrow road like loyal red sentinels watching over you as you pass by.

"Loyal red sentinels watching over you as you pass by..."
(c) Mrs P. Wise

I remember my first high school. Nestled deep in the heart of Makokoba, its green solitary field, an emerald that I told myself would one day watch as I played soccer to the applause of a cheering crowd. That never happened. Instead I lost myself in the brown face brick buildings, discovering science and literature and a world I had never imagined existed. Hard working men and women showing up every morning to make sure one thousand children each got an education that would arm them for a life in a country that was beginning its slow decline into madness. But what did I know of that? For me life was scrunching up my noise on days when the sewage in Mazaye decided to smell and waft into our Maths class as we tried to concentrate hard on these things called variables. Or the smell of incense during mass at school that made me wonder if God smelt like that; mysterious, stuffy and holy.

I remember you. Remember the force of your being, the beauty of your soul. The way we laughed all day never once thinking that it would all end. Remember the way you and I walked through the streets of that City we both called home, looking for what it was we did not know. But perhaps it was just looking for the happiness of existing in each other's world, sharing the space that Universe had loaned us, given to us and whispered softly that she would take it back one day. But we never heard her did we? We walked carelessly past the white splendour that was City Hall, sat our buttocks on the hard pavements as we waited for our kombi to go home, the squalid beauty that was the flea market with old women selling tomatoes. The freshest tomatoes in the world they said, the most beautiful, juiciest and reddest of them all: all for just two dollars. Two dollars only. I would give every dollar I had to have those days back.

I remember Christmas. No, nothing like the spectacular December lights on the Champs Elysée in Paris. Nothing fancy that sparkled in the flash of tourist camera's and makes them catch their breath. More humble, more basic; static lights stretched over Gwanda Road, all the way past the greens of Centenary Park, in the shape of a fat Santa, reindeer and spelling out Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Or perhaps it was one of the Christmas' I spent in the village with my gogo, the smell of the manure that was used to create the hard floor of the huts fading more and more into the background as each day passed. I regret never having milked the cows, never having carried a bucket of creamy milk to gogo milked by my own hands and waiting for her to congratulate me in Sotho, a language that I still do not understand.

"I will be lucky enough to go and live out those memories waiting to happen..."
Source: RedJBishop

It's funny no? One regrets the things one never did. I don't regret the day I froze in front of the entire school when I was supposed to give a prayer. I don't regret the friends I made who would later leave me, the days I spent carved into the hard stone of my memory that I will pass my hands over till the day I die. Instead one regrets the roads untravelled, the sights unseen, the words unsaid said to you. But perhaps one day I will be lucky enough to go and live out those memories waiting to happen. Add them to my memories of a City that calls out to me in my dreams, whispers to me in my days and says only one word, a simple word that tugs on my heart with such force I fear it will break.

Home. 

There Is A Joy

There is a Joy. He sits by the river, his arms stirring up the crystal water, his eyes trained on its depth, his smile brighter than the sky. His skin laps up the rays of the sun like the ground after the first rains. He sits alone but not lonely. He is not large but by no means weak. He is what he is. Joy. He looks into the water and sees the many examples of himself in the world and his smile turns into pure mirth.

There is a joy of the mother as she holds her newborn baby in her arms. Unable to believe that her body has done that most mystical of miracles, that most sacred of biological functions, that mystery above all mystery: create life. And here is the life in living, breathing flesh. Its eyes screwed shut against a world it has found itself in, uninvited, a world it did not ask for but nonetheless a world that has welcomed it into its family. A world it shall know, a life it shall live with all its attendant joys and sorrows, all its pains and lows, the highs and the peaks of ecstasy. It shall know the joy of eating, the joy of learning to walk. It will feel the pain of falling from its feet to the ground and from its dreams to reality, the crushing pain of a broken heart and the sweetness of watching the sun set on a day well spent. But for now it knows nothing but the fact that it needs to cry. And announce to the mother who will hug her to its chest and feel her heart burst with a love she shall now spend her life giving it.

There is the joy of art. The joy of the writer as he bleeds his life onto the page, the musician as his spirit is picked up in the arms of his music and flung into the higher reaches of heaven. There is the joy of the poet that most subtle of beings, that being whose heart has found the pulse of the universe beating to the same rhythm. The rhythm that the dancer dances to as she lets her arms soar, rise and fall following the pulsating joy that is found when humanity and art meet. Oh there is pain in it all to be sure. What part of being human does not capture pain? Surely there is pain in the hands of Michelangelo as he silently chips away at the marble to release the figure buried within or the pain of the photographer who has missed that perfect shot. But there is joy in the end, such sweet joy when life lies captured in ink, in stone, in words, in music, in the arms of the stage.

He smiles, his eyes lighting up with the happiness of one who has heard a music that only the Wise can hear; the sound of the universe singing your name. Now he sees two figures in the flow of the river and recognises the joy of young love. Not the flames of passion, or the dangerous scouring heat of lust. No he sees the pure tendrils of young love spread themselves softly, silently around the hearts of two people who in each other see the being that they had glimpsed only briefly before they were born and spent a lifetime looking for. And now have found. And they have found more than that haven't they? They have found the one in whom they can let their hearts repose, the one who can carry their secrets and their burdens, the one who will carry them when they can no longer walk the tortuous path of life, the one who will still be there when Beauty has moved away and left Age to take her place. No need for words for these. Silence is enough. No need for diamonds or trips to Paris, the clasp of their hands transmits a joy which makes Joy's muscles tense up as he sits and regards them in the waters flow and soon he breaks into laughter.

And what is laughter than the noise joy makes when it is can no longer take any more of itself. It rises on itself, into the air around him, tiptoeing over the corners of his mouth as it pulls them into the most genuine of smiles, unlocks the reservoirs of his eyes and lets the tears run freely down his cheeks and into the air it lets out a sound of such sweetness, a scandal of joy, a peal of happiness, an unashamed pleasure in the act of existing. He laughs and bends over himself as he dips a finger into the river and looks deeper into its depths, his eyes bright and clear through the film of tears.

He sees the small joys of a million billion people. The joy of a father as he receives a letter from his son on the battlefield, the joy of a couple as they untangle themselves from the throes of lovemaking, the sweat on their backs not yet dried but something beautiful stirring in their hearts for each other. He sees the joy of two best friends who have discovered that the flame in their hearts burn with the same colour. He sees that infant born to its mother as it returns her hug decades later, the joy of a prophet as he hears the Voice call to him to silent worship, the first drink of water of a thirsty biker, the first step of freedom of the prisoner, the first pay cheque of the new grad, the child who finds a toy it thought was lost. Millions upon countless billions of tiny joys that make the troubled existence of these humans worth it. Joys that can illuminate the darkest of cells, salve the deepest hungers, calm the most turbulent storms that trouble the souls of so many of them. So many examples of himself in their world looking back at him through the troubled depths of the water but still he stirs the water and stirs, his legs cutting through its icy depths until at last he sees what he is looking for.

He sees her there. The most beautiful form of joy there can be. A joy that has found the secret of existence, has transformed life from an act to a sacrifice, to a worship of each passing second, a love that has spread beyond just those around her and has grown to embrace people she has never met, the Joy who cannot sleep while someone she knows goes hungry, who agitates for those she does not know and feels their pain deeply in their heart as the cutting of a knife sharper than the spears of demons. A love that does not know the colours of any flag but simply the colour of the blood that runs through the veins of every person who breathes in their world, a love that realise whether the Others worship snakes, or monkeys or the Son of a Virgin they still share the same humanity as she does. A humanity as sacred and as powerful as the stars that burn in the heavens for every human who ever had the chance to make their mothers sing for joy.

He sees her and smiles. She sees him and for a moment, a moment ever so brief, spliced between the fingers of time herself, she smiles at him and disappears. Even he Joy has seen her rarely in all his centuries by the riverbank. And even less people have ever known she exists. But for them that do, their Joy was complete and when the day came for them to breath their last they did so with the knowledge that he stood waiting on the other side of the Gates of Death. With a smile on his face.

For you | Für dich

Random Memories

It's lunchtime, I am sitting on the lawn with two of my friends at St Columba's High. We are having lunch, someone cracks a joke and we laugh and I look up at the sky and suddenly time stops. I don't know what it was, perhaps it's the way the sunlight bounced off the clouds or the way the grass smelled with just the hint of the rain that had fallen a few days ago. Something lifted that moment out of itself, came down and lifted me off that lawn and made me feel a peace that looked me in the face for just a moment before disappearing and time started once again. My friends started talking about something else and the hands of time started once more. I did not tell them what had happened.

Darkness is falling outside and the plane is descending slowly towards the lights of Algiers. I look outside the window, my face stuck to the glass as I look upon my new home. It had been two days filled with wonder, my first time outside the country, my first time in a plane, my first time stuck in Paris' airport for six hours because we didn't have visa's to leave. As the plane loses altitude, giving me that annoying sensation in my stomach, I feel a rising awareness that it was now official, I had left home, I had left everything I had known my whole life for this country; this city of a thousand lights staring back at me in the dying sunlight. Was it excitement or dread I felt? The plane lands and we get off onto the land that would be our home for the next four years. The land that some of us would die in. But we didn't know that then, we were just glad to be at journey's end.

I'm standing in front of the school. All their eyes are on me. It's my first time. No one had prepared me for this. My teacher for some reason had thought it was a good idea to make me give the prayer at assembly that day. I had not. I was right. But it's too late. I can feel my heart in my throat. I am only ten years old. The dimensions of the hall seem gigantic and I am lost on the stage with a sea of eyes on me. The silence is absoloute as they all wait for me to say something. The teachers, the prefects, the rows upon rows of khakhi shirts and white, black and brown faces. I open my mouth and nothing comes out. By now I have forgotten the prayer I had been practising since yesterday. Panic.
I run off the stage. For the next few days I feel as if the whole school is laughing at me. I promise myself I will learn how to speak on stage.

We are drunk with happiness. Driving around town talking loudly over the music. I don't remember who dares me to walk into Creamy Inn and order fish in french (bear in mind this is in Zimbabwe). Surprisingly I take up his dare. We get in, all four of us. I walk up to the counter and start blabbering at the poor girl in french. For a moment she is dumbfounded then she screams at her colleagues, "Nangu umuntu uyangithethisa!!!!" We reassure we are not and end up laughing with her as we order ice cream. Next up is a parlour where my cousin asks for a banana milkshake but because he is allergic to milk, they should just shake the banana's. They call security.

It's time to swim again. What that means is that I and the few others who can't swim have to spend an hour paddling in the shallow end whilst the rest of the class goes through their drills. But not this time. Our teacher is not at school and the teacher who has replaced her is determined to make all of us swim. She tells the rest of the class to do something and spends the rest of the hour trying to get us to swim. I am scared. I am wishing our teacher was there to ignore us. I hate the water, I am scared of sinking in its depths and never coming back. I tell her that. She tells me the water will never let me sink. That my body will float. She kneels down by the edge of the pool and tells me to imagine I am sinking into my bed. I will fall but my bed will always catch me. Imagining things is what I am good at. I close my eyes and I sink into my bed of water. I am falling. Falling. The panic is beginning to rise but just as I am about to stand up I feel the water lifting me up. My little legs are kicking and my arms are flailing in every direction. How ungraceful I must look but all I can remember thinking is, I can swim!

It is assembly again. I am 8 years old old this time. My vaseline smeared face is bright with expectation. My first assembly in the big school. We all sit there, rows upon rows of khaki clad children. The little ones like us are near the front, nearest to the stage where the projector sits with its assistants who place a slide and light up the front of the hall. The piano starts playing and the whole school bursts into English church hymns. Amazing Grace, Morning has Broken, To God Be the Glory. It is another world, I sit there lost in it all. The music ends and as the silence settles the headmaster takes to the stage. He starts speaking in English and my heart falls in my chest. So many complicated words, so many things that just go straight over my head. I look around, everyone is listening attentively, suddenly I feel so small and so sad. On the way home I tell my mother what had happened. When we get home she hands me her dictionary from her High School days. I begin reading it. I tell myself I will never sit through another assembly like the one I had had that morning. It takes me years to get halfway.

The night sky is covered in stars like it is the carpet of God's house. Thousands upon thousands upon millions upon millions. I can smell the smoke from the fire and in the distance I can hear the gentle clinging of the bells the cows wear around their necks. The night air is filled with the sound of crickets, of the murmur of my mother and her sisters as they speak in Sotho and every now and again, of my granny's cackle. This is her world, a world of fields and thorn trees, of lakes and rivers, of cows and goats, of grass as high as your knees of night skies covered in diamonds. It is a world of mosquito's and the smell of the manure that is pounded into the floor of the kitchen, of the dogs lying in the sidelines, waiting for any chance scrap of food they might catch as it flies through the air. I snuggle closer into my mothers' arms and fall asleep.

All I live is regret, all I suffer is memory.

Letter to my 14 year old self

Inspired by Ernest Mackina

Hi B.

I would ask how you are doing if I didn’t know already exactly how you are doing so I’ll just hope you are having a good day as you read this letter.

I’m ten years in your future, ten years down the path you will take, ten years away from you right now at this very instant. But the thing I realise is that I owe everything to you. Every decision you are about to make will result and lead me to this place, this point in time. Every thought that passes through your mind colours my opinion, every action you take is my memory and every action you don’t is either a regret or a blessing in retrospect. For the most part you have done a great job and I have nothing but gratitude towards you; thank you B.

But the main reason I’m writing to you B is not to say thank you. Looking back from my vantage point ten years in the future I have the advantage of hindsight. I have the gift of being able to see everything as if from the side of a high mountain whereas you are trudging about in the valley. Keep trudging B, you will get here someday, you will make it to the summit. The peak seems so far away I know but trust me, keep on taking those small steps and you will be here before you know it.

I know it seems dark right now. You are stuck in a high school that at times seems unforgiving; they laugh at you for not being able to speak Ndebele properly, they laugh at you because you have no inkling of slang and you prefer to bury yourself in William Horewood novels during study period (though looking back I honestly have to ask myself where you found the courage to read a 2000 page novel in the first place). Let them laugh B. It won’t kill you. Their teasing might seem like it is barbed but one day you will realise it did nothing more to you than toughen you up for the road ahead.

Yes they tease you about seemingly everything don’t they? Your pimples, your braces, the way your voice hasn’t broken…the list seems endless sometimes doesn’t it. Don’t take it all to heart my guy. Let it roll off your back like water rolling of the back of a duck. Those braces will be gone in a few years’ time (though I wish you had worn them more often), those pimples will clear out soon enough and your voice will become your greatest asset as you go on to dominate provincial and national public speaking [spoiler alert]. As for the rest…well let them tease. Such is life my guy. You are not exactly the least sarcastic person in the world are you?

And speaking of that high school, cherish every moment B!!! Those will turn out to be the best years of your life. Those teachers will turn out to be the mentors who push you towards your dreams. And even some of those teasing you will turn out to be your best friends. Ten years will tell you the difference between the good ones and the bad but for the moment enjoy every meeting, learn from every one of them and share the communion that is the shared humanity of this lifetime. Don’t lock yourself up too much in your books, smile more often, laugh, cry and dance. Life is good B.

I know it doesn’t seem that way. I know it didn’t seem that way the two months you sat eating your lunch alone in Form One because you didn’t have any friends. I know it didn’t seem that way the day they tore you down and left you feeling as if the world had fallen around your feet. I know it didn’t seem that way the day Mr Masuku beat the entire Motor Vehicle Technology class with a broomstick that broke twice with the force of his blows (don’t worry he almost got fired for that). I know it didn’t seem that way the day you jammed in your first speech at Hillside in front of the entire school and ran off stage. I know it didn’t seem that way the day you realised your best friend was a dick. I know you can point out a dozen moments where it didn’t seem that way and I can promise you, there will be dozens more but just hold on, the one thing I can promise you is that it will all be worth it. Just hold on, study as if you are crazy, read novels as if they provide you with oxygen, laugh as if you don’t have a care in the world, continue loving as if you’ve never been hurt and you will see; one day the path will suddenly seem to level out and the clouds will, for a moment, disappear leaving you to contemplate the vast distance you have travelled and you will smile and you will remember every single day, every single moment, every single fight and you will know it was worth it.

Soon things will change drastically, you will move away to a new school, the country will begin its precipitous decline towards collapse, you will drop out of university and everything will seem to be on the edge of being torn away, nothing will seem sure but again B, hold on, it will all be worth it. I promise you that.

Don’t imagine for a moment I have reached the summit of the mountain. There is a Chinese proverb you read a few months ago in a Readers Digest. Remember it? You wrote it down in mom’s old blue diary that you use to keep beautiful quotations. It said: “When you reach the top of a mountain, keep climbing”. You will find out the meaning of it soon enough. There is never an end to struggle, just a finishing of one level and a beginning of a new one. One day you will leave the valley, and for a moment it will seem to be the summit and then you will see it was but the beginning of yet a steeper climb. Sitting here contemplating this new mountain I have to climb, again I have to thank you, for giving me the courage to keep on climbing. I return it to you B. Keep climbing.

Keep climbing.

Love,

B

PS: Ten years later I remember that trilogy you read all throughout the year. There is one part that has stayed with me till now, remember these graces. Remember them well, they shall serve you for the rest of the journey.

“The grace of form.

 The grace of goodness

The grace of suffering

The grace of wisdom

The grace of true words

The grace of trust

The grace of whole-souled loveliness.” **

(** from the Duncton Wood© trilogy by William Horewood)

A letter from Bulawayo, the City of Kings

It's surprising how many people have asked me why I haven't updated my blog recently. My deepest apologies, I have been travelling and am currently in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe; the city I was born and raised in for the first nineteen years of my life. It has been a hectic week and a half which has included a job interview (anyone hiring a Computer Scientist out there? Hint hint nudge nudge wink wink), hanging out on street corners with my friends (the pleasures of being young no?) and basically seeing people close to my heart who I only get to see once in an unseemingly (my Google Chrome is insisting unseemingly is not a word but I know better) long time.

Anyway in the rush of life (I now seem to have one) it has been pretty difficult to find time to sit down and write anything let alone blog but don't worry as soon as I get back to Johannesburg I will have plenty of time to spin my usual tales and delight (or shock) you with the ramblings of a (slightly) disturbed mind. In the meantime I'd like to share with you dear readers a letter I wrote to my mother more than six years ago. She had just emigrated to South Africa leaving me and the rest of the family in Zimbabwe. I had at that point never travelled anything more than a hundred kilometres beyond Zimbabwe's borders and I could not even begin to fathom the new sights she was beholding in the famous 'City of Gold'.

I felt as if I was stuck in Zimbabwe, especially as the economic situation slid ever closer to collapse and each day was a miracle of survival. But one day walking home from school I had a glimpse of the Jacaranda's that famously line the avenues of Bulawayo, the City of Kings, and a feeling of inexplicable hope for my future, and that of the country, filled me with such inspiration that when I got home I grabbed my little exercise book where I wrote my short stories (I had no access to a computer at that time except once a week at British Council). This letter would later serve as the template to the story, Purple, that I wrote when I came back to Zimbabwe from Algeria for the first time in three years and that won the Dr Yvonne Vera Award for 2010. Life is funny isn't it? Enjoy.

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Portrait of A Half Remembered City

It is jacaranda time again in the City of Kings again, that time of the year when the jacarandas launch their annual celebration of life. And as usual, the trees never fail to disappoint; it is a spectacular scene that blows the mind away with its beauty and for a moment hides the dark scars buried beneath.

I know that Johannesburg is one of the most beautiful cities in the world and that you are probably perpetually amazed in the City of Gold, but mom it is hard to picture anything more picturesque than the two lane avenues of Bulawayo carpeted by the fallen purple blossoms and the trees on guard in rows of two and three on either side. The gentle summer breeze occasionally stirs them and for a moment the trees come alive, waving their burly branches and discharging more purple bells into the air. Down by Ascot shopping centre, the flamboyants are coming alive so you have not only purple but red as well. It is a time of simple beauty; when the jacaranda’s rule.

Bulawayo 1975, Public Domain Image
"Portrait of a half remembered city"

But look closely and the scars become more and more apparent. Centenary Park is an insult to the word. There is nothing park-like in the dirty brown rug that covers the ground in threadbare patches. Or the once proud fountain that used to send water soaring ten metres into the air in beautiful shimmering patterns that sparkled like diamonds under the African sun. No, now the fountain stands empty, a sad reminder of the times that used to be and now are not. One wonders why they have switched it off, after all it did use reclaimed water. But perhaps the city fathers are wary of having conspicuous jets of water gushing endlessly at a time when some townships have not had water for weeks. But I think it would be an encouragement, a sign that we are down but not out. No matter what I think, the fountain stands dry and empty.

Empty is now a buzz word in Bulawayo. It describes everything from supermarket shelves to the water tanks we now keep at home. It describes people’s bank accounts as well as bakeries which now sell Zap-Nax of all things in the world. I can just imagine the management meeting that decided to shut down the ovens and fill the shelves that once were loaded with doughnuts, pies and sausage rolls; with crisps that used to be sold on the road sides, once, so long ago it seems. They must have shook their heads In silent wonder at the level to which they had sunk to but in true Zimbabwean style asked themselves, “what else can we do?” the answer must have been obvious to them as it is to me: Survive.

Scott Wheeler, GFD Licence
"...the political drought in Zimbabwe"

And that is what we do every day; we survive. Cars still fill the roads even though no garage has officially sold a drop of fuel for the past few months. People still get into kombi’s and buses smelling fresh or of the latest brand of perfume even though there has been no water for the past three days. Our smiles still reach the sides of our faces, penetrating the dark corners of our minds with the light of a bittersweet joy that helps Zimbabweans come through these dark and turbulent times. The drought that affects Bulawayo is a metaphor for the political drought in Zimbabwe. But even though the rain might be long on coming we know in our heart of hearts, that it is on its way. One day we will wake up to its fat drops exploding on our windows and the thunder chasing away the demons that lurk in the air, lightning flashing brightly like the eyes if God.

But until then, we have only the jacaranda’s to console us and heal the wounds in our hearts. The beautiful purple blossoms floating gently to the ground, whispering so gently you might not hear it if you don’t listen hard enough, don’t open your heart to the beauty of this created world. They say, “He is there, He remembers you; always.”

KENPEI, GFD Licence
"He remembers you. Always"

Algérie Mon Amour | Algeria My Love

Today the strangest thing in the world happened. Due to an unfortunate - and technically illegal - oversight, I left Algeria without completing my documents and today I was forced to make the long trek to the Algerian embassy in Pretoria to try and sort it out. I went there braced for the worst, used as I was to the Algerian system of bureaucracy, and yet lo and behold not only did the diplomat who I talked to turn out to be completely helpful, frank and friendly we actually even chatted for a few minutes.

This led me to think that for once in my life I would dedicate an entire blog to listing my top five positives about Algeria that I encountered during my stay there. My friends who still live there will have a mouthful to say about this I predict but I assure you, once you put 8000km’s between yourself and Zinedine Zidane’s country, you cannot but help put on the rose tinted glasses as you gaze at it perched snugly on the crown of the African continent. So here goes:

5. Their ridiculous prices

Get this, tuition at any of Algeria’s universities is…wait for it…two United States dollars; yes you read that right US$2.00. (I am using the exchange rate I last encountered). The University of Johannesburg is averaging around US$4000 and the University of Cape Town I am told sits comfortably above the five grand mark. Their fuel costs a measly 20 cents a litre and a public bus in the capital will set you back a measly 15 cents but if you are university student you can hop onto the universities shuttle bus service which will cost you…fifty cents per YEAR. Hold on, what about the state of the art tram system they just installed? 20 cents.  How about in the realm of telecoms? A dollar will give you almost thirteen minutes of talk-time and heck, if you charge up your phone with ten dollars at a go, they’ll throw in eight hours talk-time free. I remember I once started a phone conversation as I was cutting up the onions for my dinner and only finished it as I sat down to a plate of steaming rice and chicken which had all been cooked whilst I talked. Where else in the world do you get that?

4. Speaking of food…

The Mediterrenean palate for me was like a trip to paradise and back, except for olives which I somehow never acquired a taste for. But if you are content to suffer those little balls of concentrated posion that even Jesus used to eat then you will be well rewarded. Where do I start? There is the ‘poulet rotti’, which is a spiced and herbed chicken put on a flaming rottiserie and left to grill on the streetside. Or the ‘shwarma’, a French loaf as long as your forearm stuffed with grilled turkey, French fries, tomatoes, onions, lettuce and generously drizzled with mayonnaise. Or couscous served with spiced chicken drowning in soup. What about a glass of Orangina to quench your thirst? What is Orangina you ask? It is the perfect balance between a fruit juice and a soft drink, hell it even has its own Wikipedia page. Or their curious habit of dressing French fries with mayonnaise and salads with vinegar (the exact opposite of how it’s done in Zimbabwe). Who was I to complain? I grew up hating sadza so an entire region where it didn’t exist was bound to leave me as pleased as punch!

3. The architecture

For the most part I will admit that Algeria is left behind when compared to South Africa in contemporary architecture but there is a certain je ne sais quoi about the way they approach the art of building anything. Let us sweep aside for a moment the architectural exceptions of my native land and that of my adopted land. Let us take an ordinary building, sitting by the corner of a busy street and housing a small boutique owned by a small family. You see it? Well back in Zimbabwe that building would almost be invariably be square or rectangular and completely functional with the government approved minimum of windows, a door and a display. Now let us imagine that family is Algerian. That building is transformed almost immediately into a testament of Franco-Islamic architecture, filigreed metal adorns the balcony that serves no other function but to exist. The eaves of the building are held up by two stone male figures that seem to come up out of the building at waist level, their naked chests daring the street with their feat of strength. Corners are softened by sculptures of leaves that seem to want to drop leaf-like into the forest of cars below. Even the Algiers Post Office has a Wikipedia column to itself, it’s a building that awed me the first time I stepped into it and trust me, Post Offices rarely do that to me (or anyone else for that matter).

2. Français

There is nothing sexier than speaking in French. Seriously the language does things to the meanings of words, it wraps them up in a cloak of culture, peppers their noses with oh just a touch of expensive eau de toilette and then sends them out to the world to give French kisses to the ears of passing listeners. The ordinary gains a level of sophistication, and the sophisticated just seduces you and leaves you on your knees screaming for more. I used to love Céline Dion (don’t pretend you don’t) even before I went to the Maghreb but when I heard her singing in French, I almost cursed the bastard who taught her English. It’s a beautiful language with a thousand and one cute idiosyncrasies, for example the eau de toilette all those perfume companies proudly stamp on their bottles simply means toilet water. Or the French for ‘I miss you’ in English literally translates to, ‘I have a lack of you’. Or their method of slapping bon which means ‘good’ to everything so that they come up with bonjour (good day), bonsoir (good evening), bon appetite (enjoy your meal), bon fête (happy holiday), bon café (enjoy your coffee), bon douche (enjoy your bath; I kid you not, people actually wish each other well even for that).

1. My friends

It is never an easy thing to uproot yourself from everything you know; your family, your language, your culture and religion and plant yourself smack in the middle of someone else’s world. But when you do pray that you have friends like the ones I encountered there. Friends who came in all different shapes, sizes and with nationalities ranging from Algerian through to Ugandan and Rwandan all the way to trusty old Zimbabwean. In a country which enjoys all the benefits I have just described and which a famous poet once described as a ‘dream of sand’, you can imagine all great moments we shared. Roasted chicken shared over a brick somehow rewired to serve as a heater, racing each other  through the university residence at 3am the night before an end of year of exam (the nerves had gotten the best of us), breaking the Ramadan fast with my friends family or almost drowning at the beach when I got caught by a rip tide. Falling asleep on one of our cross country bus tours, fighting about the colour of the wallpaper in our room, walking five kilometres in the snow because the highway was closed, making out furtively in hidden corners…my friends and my enemies, my loves and my haters made Algeria the experience that it was.