Somewhere down a damp, patchy-grassed, walled corridor separating two blocks of houses in a South B estate, a man bangs on a metallic gate in the shadows cast by the early morning sun. It’s 7:25am,
It’s not you, it’s us. Apparently some of you are not receiving your alerts when we post. I’m getting
emails from people who ask, “Biko, was I removed from the mailing list? Is this romance over?”
In a small room with 3 way mirrors at Dulles International Airport, Washington DC, three bulky and unsmiling American immigration officials stood over Solomon Wangwe’s open suitcases. This was after they had pulled him off the queue and scanned his bags and shoes and jacket,
There are readers who don’t comment. They email me thoughts. Some are long emails, others are short emails. Some make sense to me, others only make sense to them. Some become e-friends, others become real acquaintances.
I didn’t post anything last week because I was thinking. I was seated at my desk at home, leaning all the way back in my chair and staring out the window dreamily. I have a massive wall to wall window that overlooks the verandah of the neighbouring apartments.
Linda (Editor): This story is disjointed.
Me: Did you know that you have to be strong and tall and not pregnant to be allowed to sit on the Exit seat in the plane?