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Shit We say

I am involved in a project where I interview artists – singers, sculptors, painters, dancers, virtuosos in the form of children who play the hell out of a violin, animators – a project commissioned by the Godown Arts Center.

The Good Life

“He’s rich and old,” I tell my friend Gina.

“You mean rich but old?” She asks from the carpet where she’s seated between my knees. I’m helping her undo her braids. She’s in this team natural group where they occasionally meet in a garden to drink rosé and talk about children and men,

Suleiman’s Goat

I wake up very early on Sabbath. It’s quiet and drizzling lightly outside. Perfect morning; the phone isn’t ringing yet, the people on Whatsapp Groups who have an opinion on everything haven’t woken up yet,

There Were Birds, But They Didn’t Sing

What does human flesh taste like?

Everybody I tell this story thinks I should have asked her this question. At some point I began to think that maybe I should have asked her.

Babies On Planes

Up the aisle, a bony man struggles to shove his luggage into the compartment above. His elbows look like a branch off a yellow-bark acacia. If you walked into his elbow by accident you would die from excessive haemorrhage.

Letter To My 20-Year Old Self

Hi, Biko.

 

It’s fine if you don’t know. It’s fine if you don’t have a plan. It’s fine if you are the only one who doesn’t seem to know where your life is headed.