He had to die in that perfect way, with a perfect number of stabs–all around his chest– and died close to the stream that was across the veld near our home.
When I was a little boy, when I still dreamt of being a lawyer like many of my peers at that age, my inquisitiveness bothered my mother. “Mama,” I … Continue reading The Purposes of Writing from a Lonely Place
It is said that we speak and see the dead when we are close to our death. We can touch them without anyone seeing. We can hear and feel them without anyone noticing. The educated ones call this hallucination. The traditional ones call this a deep connection with the dead. But it is a paradise before the uncertainty of the afterlife.
I was not a musician, a record collector or hoarder of musical items. I have no interest in things that sound like cars beeping in a Johannesburg traffic jam during rush hour; sounds of goats getting slaughtered or metals beaten together to create a melody. I was not tempted to be polite or appreciative of the gift but I had already stretched out my arm in respect of my mother’s gesture. These records hid under my mother’s bed like an envelope waiting to be handed over to its owner.
I felt as if he was a cloud of darkness on top of me and inside me. I made a crying sound and I felt his hands that smell like butt cracks cover my mouth and I kept quiet.