Category: Uncategorized

To the frail and fragile innocent, may you continue to be supple; bending and yielding, singing and swaying through the darkest and harshest of passing storms?

To the soft and sweet underbelly of childhood, may you continue to marvel and wonder at the beauty of life; fearing nothing – not even fear itself, by seeing that light and shadow is one and the same?

To the fretful and fearful child, may you choose adulthood; breaking free of shackles of past oppressions, maintaining curiosity of wonder and delight?

To the reactive and reproachable, may you choose to be present; diagnosing your behavioral patterns and overreactions as self-protection mechanisms arising from past hurts; quickly see things as they are and ask yourself, ‘is this serving my present and highest self, or are you engaging in self-sabotaging behaviors’?

To the tired and tyrant, may you retreat into the darkness; protecting the world from your ego and yourself from the world, don’t forget that being right and alone will only bring more suffering; Ask yourself thrice, “Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?”

To the fully grown and giant, may you choose to take flight; trusting the universe to catch and hold you as you fall, enjoying every moment, as they come and go?

“It’s time to go to school, you’re late!”
Rubbing my eyes, I look around. I bolt out the door with the school bag slung hurriedly across one shoulder.
I come home few minutes later. It’s Sunday. She is waiting for my return, with a smile on her face.

I wake up from another nap.
“It rained while you slept.”
‘Really’? I answer in bewilderment. Later seeing grandfather washing down the pavement. She got me again.

I used to chew the same gum for days, not knowing when I can get another piece. I would stick it on the wall next to me, to save it for another day’s chew.
One day, I wake up to find a solid white mass stuck to my hair. I am distraught.
“Get it out! Get it out!” I wail and scream.
Snip snip. A chunk of hair falls away from my face. I scream even louder.

“What did you do your sister? Why is she crying?”

I am curious. I touch all the buttons and knobs on the black stereo. Trying to figure out how things work.
“Why weren’t you keeping a close eye on her?”

I create problems. Hers to solve.

Her small hand is holding mine tightly. She consoles me, telling me it’s going to be okay. We are at the police station, waiting for our mother to collect us. She is 7 years old.

On a long rectangular table, she places a chocolate sando or strawberry sando, setting for a party of 8. School friends come over to celebrate. She hands me cute notebooks and pencils. My birthday presents.

How did she feel when our aunt and cousin left? Truth blurs my vision as I hold back the tears. I see her for the first time. World on her small shoulders. Born 18 months before me. A child herself. Not only did she have to take care of herself (which she didn’t), but also her younger sister and brother.

The loss of her carefreeness. Childlike innocence. The magnitude of her suffering.

I try and I fail to understand, the depth of her love. I cannot try to make sense of what happened. With her shielding me where she could, taking care of me as best as she could. I am her first beloved.

Into few glimpses of the past, I zoom into her, away from me. Having embraced and consoled the child in me. The past helping me to understand the present you. The past that has shaped and molded you into you today. The you that has shaped me and shielded me into the present.

I dedicate this love letter to my older sister.
My living guardian angel.
Without you, I would have been lost.
Without you, I would have lost my way.

I dedicate my love of writing to the one I hold dearest to my heart.

“Let’s pick these flowers”,
She whispers, leaning down to meet my face, as we walk back from the shops, noticing wild roses growing against the pavement.
‘Isn’t that stealing? Someone will see us!’
I am in shock.
“It’ll be dark and no one will see us!”
As she laughs, I hear coins falling onto the pavement. She is so silly, I giggle to myself.

She is back at her childhood home to take care of us. Her newborn daughter, my youngest cousin is just a babe. She smells of breastmilk and baby powder.

How long does she stay? A month? Two months? As a child, I have no sense of time, and I wish for our time to never stop. My only wish is for the days to continue. As is. This moment, locked in eternity.

Her husband impatiently calls her back to the big city.
Tomorrow, I will leave, she says.
Tomorrow, it rains.
With the baby, traveling on buses, it’s too much. So she stays, waiting for the rain to stop.
The next day, when the rain stops, I will be on my way.
It rains again and again and again.
I wish for the rain to continue.
To never stop. Because for as long as it rains, she cannot leave.

I run home everyday, to make sure she is home, and when she’s still there, I feel a sense of relief.

One morning, she says her good-bye. This time, I mean it. I am leaving, she says.
It’s still raining, and so, how can she leave? I don’t believe her. It’s been raining for days. Hadn’t she repeated the same words in the past?
I run home in the drizzle, rain softly falling on my face. My feet splashing the ground, passing the spot where the flowers used to grow.

Pushing the sky blue gate open, I run up to the steps, kicking off my shoes. With my right hand, I turn the metal doorknob. I can smell them, and with a sense of hope and dread, I swing the door wide open.

Tidy and clean, with no trace of their belonging. Filling every crevice of the room, their scent lingers. Silence rings hollow, in this room, where I used to sleep, cradled into my own mother’s embrace, with my sister next to me. I miss the cooing and crying. The sound of life itself.

I am at Father Coffee, unearthing memories of past days.
Rain from that day, mixed with tears, washes over me.

I dedicate this love letter to the rain.

When it rains in the middle of summer’s sunshine, tigers are getting married. And on this day of holy matrimony, three girls walk home after school, rectangular bag on their backs. Without hurry, on their half hour walk home, with no sign of rain abating.

A car pulls up. A man ushers them to the back seat. Soaking wet, they rush in. “Where are your umbrellas”, he asks not waiting for answers.

Few minutes later, he drops them off close to where they live. They leave as quickly as they entered, scurrying off like hamsters with tiny legs. Yelling “thank you” in unison, as they run home.

This letter goes out to the man, for his generous act of random kindness.

The sky is grey.
Two black women walk across the parking lot, stepping out of rain, stopping to rest.
She is wearing grey tracksuit with a hat on her grey head, scarf hanging loosely around her neck. Her daughter grabs one end, gentle and slow motion, as if she were building a house for soft petals resting on two sets of delicate stems.

Two strangers caught in the act of loving kindness.

I am back in the city of gold, my home province of South Africa.
My friend comes home, picking up groceries for dinner. Welcome home, honey. Kisses and hugs after you put your bag down. “mwa mwa!”

“Can I turn on music?” Of course, it’s your house. She turns on the radio. “Are you okay with coriander” Of course, I am full of flavor.

It is raining still. I didn’t bring socks or sweatshirt.
She hands me a pair of cherry red socks and black sweatshirt.
Dampness hangs in the air.

It’s raining still, and I have found a story belonging to a book of overcast days. To you two strangers, I dedicate this love letter. My favorite poem.

“Fall Song by Jo Harjo

It is a dark fall day.
The earth is slightly damp with rain.
I hear a jay.
The cry is blue.
I have found you in the story again.
Is there another word for ‘‘divine’’?
I need a song that will keep sky open in my mind.
If I think behind me, I might break.
If I think forward, I lose now.
Forever will be a day like this
Strung perfectly on the necklace of days.
Slightly overcast Yellow leaves
Your jacket hanging in the hallway Next to mine.”

I barely sleep through the night. Skin itching everywhere, I toss and turn. The next morning, as I apply toothpaste to my electric toothbrush, I see my reflection. A pair of bloodshot and droopy eyes. Who are you?

I step outside to find Sammy waiting for me. Peering out of his piercing blue eyes, inviting me to play.
I promised to take care of a friend’s Siamese for the weekend. Sleeping over, to keep him company. A beautiful apartment in the middle of Sandton.

How could I forget? I am allergic to cats.

You come over and we go upstairs to sit by the infinity pool with a view of Johannesburg punctuated with purple Jacarandas.

I tell you about Mark. “He gave himself to the world, yet he never found the love he deserved. A man to love him. He had so much love to give.

With a serious look on your face, you tell me, “The way you see Mark. That is the way I see you. You are so beautiful. You are so kind. You give so much. You wouldn’t recognize yourself if you passed yourself by.

Words I will never forget.

“You know… life isn’t easy for people. Have you ever been rejected? Have you ever told anyone that you like them? You have to try.”

We leave the pool and head downstairs. As we sit and talk, half hour passes. “Oh my goodness, look at your face! You’re turning red.”

You see my face change, allergic reaction to the cat. Mirror of truth, you become. “Yes, you agreed to catsit, but that doesn’t mean you should sleep here tonight! You can’t breathe here!”

We used to run into each other at mutual friend’s get togethers, never in each other’s direct orbit. You didn’t like me (your words), and I didn’t think we had anything in common.

Shortly after the lifting of Covid travel restrictions, we are invited by another mutual friend to join 3 other women on a weekend getaway. On second day, we sit casually across from each other on long dining room table. How did we get started, this three-hour conversation? We cry at each other’s life stories lived in parallel. You call me Twin. You say I am like the real twin you lost, a sister who shared your mother’s womb.

Friendship blossoms. You become my sun and my moon. And I too, become your sun and your moon.

12 months later, we find ourselves in the same house, few hours away from Johannesburg. It is evening and we are playing 30-seconds, in opposite teams.

30 seconds is like the American Taboo. One person tries to get her team to guess as many words as they can in 30 seconds. My team finishes a turn and you object.

“Nope, you don’t get a point for that!”
“Yes we do”, I fight back.
“But nobody heard it!” you yell.
“So what? Do you think I would lie to get a point in a game of 30 seconds? If I said it and no one heard it except me, isn’t my word good enough? Don’t you believe me?”

Silence.

“You’re right. I believe you. I’m sorry, Twin.”
“It’s okay.”
And like that, we get through our first argument. Respectfully and quickly.

We spend time together, just the two of us. You seek me out. I appreciate your honesty. You know how to speak to me. I do my best in black and white. You tell me, “You know, I never liked you. I was like, why is N friends with this person? She’s lame. But I know N. She keeps quality people in her friend’s circle. Then you left Telkom. You became a different person. No, you became more of who you are. Then you broke up with your Ex. Then you became even more of yourself. I was like, whoa! Who is this person! I want to spend as much time with you!”

You had every reason to dislike me. In my previous role, I felt as if I was in Dead Sea, treading water to barely clear the water’s edge. Avoiding dead bodies and sharks nearby.

In my new role, I feel safe. Out of water, on dry land. I had shed barnacles and other parasites attached to my life raft. I become me.

You become my cheerleader, and me yours. I teach you how to navigate corporates. How to start slow with investing. The power of compound interests. You teach me how to live in this world, full of social cues and norms I could not see until you entered into my orbit.

You are African. I am Asian. You are brown, me sandalwood. You are sporty; I love books. You are married; I am still figuring things out. Your battery is often flat, and mine is always full. You are neurotypical. I am neurodivergent.

We are more alike, than we are different. A match made in heaven, in this earth, together in time.

You are lovely to me, and I am lovely to you. What have I done to deserve such love? You keep me accountable. You invite me to level up. I do the same, and we celebrate each other.

You push me. I push back. And together, we calibrate and equilibrate. We balance each other.

You open my eyes to the world. I learn to speak the language of neurotypical people. You challenge me to do right by me. “If you signed up for 12 months in Cape Town, why don’t you give yourself the full 12 months?”, You challenge me as I contemplate staying another week in Johannesburg to dilly dawdle.

I can go on and on. And it will, for as long as we shall live. This love letter that continues to write itself.

Last night, my 100-day challenge accountability partner tells me,
“People enter our lives for a season, reason and lifetime.”

With you, I commit to a lifetime of reasons and seasons of love.
With you by my side, this world makes more sense.
Dear Siamese Twin,
I dedicate one of my favorite songs in celebration of our love.

Seasons of Love – Rent (Music Video)

“Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
Five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear.
five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
How do you measure,
Measure a year?

In daylights? In sunsets? In midnights? In cups of coffee?
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife?

In five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
How do you measure a year in a life?

How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love…
Seasons of love…
Seasons of love…

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
Five hundred twenty five thousand journeys to plan.
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
How do you measure a life of a woman or a man?

In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried?
In bridges he burned, or the way that she died?

It’s time now to sing out, though the story never ends.
Let’s celebrate remember a year in a life of friends”

P.S. Yesterday, as I was walking back to my car, I turn to my right to glimpse at my own reflection. Who is this beautiful woman looking so cool and so full of life?

I see me, the same way you see me.

Tall, dark and handsome. Black man with slim figure and long legs. Capable and articulate, in your late twenties, rising through corporate ranks. Women love you, and men look up to you, wondering how you buzz with such confidence. When you smile, your teeth sparkle white. Impeccably dressed, with just the right amount of flair.

We meet at work. I am the cat, you the mouse. Program managing a savings program, my job is to chase you, and you run away from me.

We keep running into each other. In Soweto. At Sakhumzi, I see you sitting down with a man. Among the throng of people, it is early evening as we get ready to run the JP Morgan outside of Wanderer’s. I spot a tall man wearing pink shorts. “Hi Mark!”

I see you at the gym, dominating step class. Always with that broad smile of yours, disarming the skeptic in us.

Disembarking from a London red eye, I drive to work. Wearing the latest London purchase: Pink heels with black and white dress. Behind me you call out, “Yooooooooooooh! Look at those shoes. And these calves! Wow!!!” I return your smile.

We become friends. We attend each other’s birthday parties. Like a bee, you buzz from one social event to the next. Always keeping your word and showing up with all of yourself. You come over one new year’s eve and meet my dad.

One day, you send me a picture. You’re smiling, carrying a man on your back, the same guy I saw you with at Sakhumzi. “Yes, you guessed it!” You come out to me. What an honor. Everyone else thinks you’re straight. You feel safe with me to share your secret. You invite me to join your friendship circle. I am the only one from work to attend your special events.

You are always available to meet with me. Calling me out on my nonsense and celebrating my wins. We are each other’s accountability partners. You move two and half blocks away from my place.

You are raising your two nephews, calling them your children. They call you dad. One day, the two young men walk to my place, carrying a bouquet of flowers. I continue see them around the neighborhood, walking around. You share your parenting principles. “Yes, they must walk! One needs to lose weight. No, I’m not going to take them around in my car. They must earn their keep!”

You are funding their education, a place to live, showing them how to live in this world. Generous with your time, you create a program for your colleagues at Standard Bank. “You know, these people. They don’t speak proper English. They must learn! English is the business language in South Africa. I know, school system is bad, and whatever! But they have to learn now.” You create a series of speaker series to come and speak to your cohort. Fully funded by the company, this mover and shaker. You invite me to speak, and I join you one evening. To say thanks, you gift me a small statue of a woman playing violin.

You live your purpose: Lift others as you rise.

Covid is coming to a close, and it’s already been ten years since we first met.
You send me a photo. Gaunt in a hospital gown, out of your body are tubes leading to a glass beaker full of pink liquid. I can’t stand to look at the screen, as if I am witnessing a scene of a fatal accident. It’s you. I can’t recognize this version of you.

Life’s energy drained from your body, I can’t see you. I need some time to get used to this…
One evening, as I sit down for dinner, your place 250meters from Andiccio. I feel guilty for not walking over. Why am I being such a scumbag?

Few days later, I get a message from mutual friend “Mark’s gone. He passed away yesterday.”

Chemo to fight off skin cancer was too much for your body, your immune system compromised by tuberculosis.
All I had to do was walk over. All I had to do was give you a call. All I had to do was show up to see you, even if words failed me. It is too late, and I cannot undo the past.

An advocate of ‘cameras on always’, I excuse myself from the screen. Like waves, the tide rises, and I swell inside, waves crashing into me. Thoughts of you escape my eyes. My face turns into mashed potato.

A virtual wake with 1000+ people dialing in. More would have joined, had they known about your passing. A colleague and a friend recounts a memory of you.

“We were celebrating with a bottle of champagne. But we didn’t have flutes. Mark was insistent that we needed flutes, so I had to go buy them before he would let us open the bottle. Mark knew how to celebrate. He was insistent in doing things right. That’s Mark for you”

I am so sorry.

I beat myself up into a pulp. It’s easy to get stuck in this loop of self-loathe. And with this pulp, I unroll sheets of paper mixed with guilt. And on this parchment, I rearrange my emotions in black and white to write this love letter to my friend who was once beautiful.

Dear Mark Mandla Nwaila, I miss you.

Parking lot is already half full with groups of people gathering at the starting line. I walk towards them, wondering how I’m going to find my small group, as one calls out my name. I recognize his wavy hair, and I call out another. Moments later, two more arrive. We have all found one another despite meeting only once before.

“I wonder if it’s going to clear. I really hope it does”
“It will… We may even see some rainbows later. Or, it won’t. Anicca”

M starts humming, the familiar sound of Goenkaji, marking the end of suffering. Soothing and familiar, we laugh out loud.

Halfway up, we break through the clouds. Sparkling stars light the clear blue sky. Moving headlights of fellow hikers add to the constellation above and behind us.

We veer left, away from chain ladders, choosing a less popular route. We reach the ridge, just before the last push before the summit. Setting on a flat surface, marveling at the clouds below us.

We’re happy not to summit, having been here before. Happy to escape the crowd. We are blessed to be residents of this great city, not having to hurry. Free to come back whenever we want to.

“I want to jump in, it looks so soft.”

Cotton candy clouds. Layers and depth beyond our wildest imagination separate us from the world below. “Look, it’s like waves!”

Thick white clouds rise. Swell rolls in front of our eyes, slow and gentle. Peaks form, wave circling downwards. Sea spray breaks free, burning through the atmosphere. It looks like a wave, suspended, as if fast forwarding a paused frame.

A man walks on by, playing “a whole new world” from Aladdin. Fitting. I love that song.
Another M starts singing, “Here comes the sun” by the Beatles.

And the sun rises above the mountains, between two peaks, orange and red in front of us, blue and pink behind us. How is the same sky bleeding different colors? We take snapshots of each other and our surroundings. Offering and receiving generous cup of coffee and milk.

A couple plays a game, pushing and pulling each other. Click click click.
Another couple poses, a young and gentle energy. So sweet and joyful, my heart swells with best wishes. Click click click.

“Would you like a fig?”
“I love figs, thanks!”

I didn’t bring a jacket to keep warm. I don’t often dwell. My body starts to shiver, and I need to get moving.

“Bye!”, abruptly, I bid farewell. I need to go, I am cold. I descend quickly.

Later, we exchange photos.
“Thank you for the beautiful photos!”
“Thank you for being beautiful!”
Why do we look better in our still frames taken by others, compared to the ones we take of ourselves?
You are more beautiful and wonderful than you will ever see of yourself.

This love letter is to adventures.
To venturing outside, to unknown territories.
To saying yes to 5am hikes and making new friends along the way.
To imagining the sweetness of cotton candy clouds.
To creating futures with present actions.
To breaking through the clouds, rising higher and together.
To seeing far and wide.
To cherishing what is right in front of us.
Like this mountain, 15 minute-drive from my sanctuary.

Thirteen, a baker’s dozen.
Back in the day, bakers gave an extra loaf when selling a dozen to avoid penalty of selling short weight.
What do you give away for free? How about a smile? A gentle wave? A friendly ‘how do you do’?