We explained to Pastor Enoch that we were meant to be met by Bishop Lamba Lamba’s people and were now very concerned. I could feel that he sensed every fibre of fear and uncertainty that we were feeling. He said not to worry, that the church had a branch in Kasumbalesa, helped us with our luggage and walked with us to the church – a ramshackle complex with a small church hall, pastor’s office and an assortment of shacks and run-down brick buildings. A little pig was wallowing in a mud pit a few metres from the entrance.

The service was about to begin. We were greeted by the church’s pastors. We gave them each a few French bible-books out of sheer gratitude for the refuge. They were genuinely delighted with the books. I thought if we ever get to Lubumbashe we may just be carrying an empty cardboard box.

The people were friendly, courteous and greeted us in French. I asked for water and we were served ice-cold bottled water on a tray. We slumped wearily into the plastic chairs at the back of the church hall, sighed, and smiled nervously at each other.

It was a temporary relief.

I love it when you say: "YES".

Not just for the meaning of it, but for the love of the lyrical way

it leaves your lips. For your smile that carries the lilting sounds 

on magical notes and chords in play

I love it when you say: "YES".

It gives me freedom to express

and DO

and permission to share

my feelings for you.

I love it when you say: "YES"

to the little things

shooting stars, not diamond rings

not majestic seas, but little springs

that refresh our lust for life

And sometimes, when you say: "NO"

I love it too

I look into your sapphire eyes

(I feel you warm to my fingertips

I feel you through your wanting lips)

and then I know

Your "NO" is often just a 'YES"

you're trying to disguise....

poetry

I climbed with great discomfort into the co-pilot’s seat of the little tin can four-seater Cessna, guided by Captain John Murphy who hopped into the pilot’s seat on my left, closed the door and enquired after my well-being. I explained that I had sustained an injury to my upper chest – probably a torn muscle, I suggested – in Jozi on the eve of my departure for Zambia.

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Zambia | travel writing | broken ribs | whiskey

Weather

I said to the waitress
after breakfast at the Nibbling Squirrel
that I was going home to write poetry
and goodbye and have a nice weekend

She looked outside
at the black sky
into the black south-easter
and said it’s perfect weather
for writing poetry

I thought to myself
it’s not the weather outside
it’s the storm building up
inside of me

poetry

 Like most South Africans I was shattered when the news broke about the assassination of Chris Hani on Easter Saturday, April 10, 1993. It was a sad day for the country. There were jitters amongst many people, whites mostly, that civil war would or could ensue, especially since the assassin was believed to be a member of the extreme Afrikaner right wing organisation, the AWB.

On Monday morning, April 12, on my way to work, I bought a camera, a little Olympus, fully automatic; with a zoom lens. I planned to walk around during my lunch hour and take pictures of anything or anybody I found interesting.

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Chris hani | riots | protests | apartheid