Someone emailed and asked why I don’t write about Tamms anymore, did we break up? (Ho-ho-ho.) It’s because she’s 10 years now, a few months shy of 11-years. And it’s a big deal. I know you must think,
He talks about God. A lot. Not that I mind those who talk about God, or even those who talk about God a lot but I want him to talk about that one thing that is the reason we are here.
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.
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.
We go for our children’s sports day, not because we want to run balancing eggs on spoons stuck in our mouths, but because we want our children to remember that we went. That we showed up.
Tamms told her mom to tell me not to wear certain pants when I go pick her up from school. Implying that they embarrass her. That, I, Jackson Biko, own pants that she thinks very little of.