Once he’d read the letter numerous times — folding it carefully and tossing it on the bed after each round, and after some anxious coughs, mumbles, and caresses of the stitched neck, picking it up again for another look through — K. pocketed the damn thing,
When the trucks are loud and heavy on the bridge above me, and there is too much sharp light from the metal bodies of so many cars flowing in front of me, I lean back into the shadows of the cool cement wall, close my eyes, and feel I am sitting by a river.
Mariam parked in her usual spot in front of the martial arts studio, a short way down from her father’s apartment block. There was secure visitors parking underground and away from the chaos of the main road, but she’d stopped using it some time ago.
Bad people live in the house across the train tracks. That’s what Ma says. She says it’s chock-a-block full of druggies and neglected children. Sometimes when we drive past Ma flicks her hand and says, Now there’s a bad lot. I don’t want you playing with those kids, do you hear?
It was only after he got back on the bus that would take him the long road home that he began to realise what he’d accomplished.
It had started that morning with an unexpected phone call from an ex-girlfriend whom he hadn’t seen or heard from in almost two decades.
I awoke one Thursday morning with a resolve that was rather uncharacteristic to my disposition. Today was the day. Dawn’s bold face stared through the window. I took my iPhone from under the pillow and, not daring to think on it further, I sent her the text:
Ná ‘n reeks teleurstellende voorvalle, ongelukke sou ‘n mens dit kan noem, was ek genoop om my lewe, in besonder my siening van myself, te herevalueer.
Joan Hambidge is a prolific poet, writer, literary theorist, academic, critic, columnist, gender expert and, lately, writer of libretto.
White men with backpacks and Bibles, goggles and cameras, have come to have us dance for them. This can only mean one thing: springtime in Namaqualand.
Little magazines – as literary magazines are patronisingly or endearingly called – are where most of us are published for the first time. I don’t know how writers would ever get started without them
The sun is sinking into the horizon as our steam train, its whistle blowing, enters Kroonstad. Mom stands up. Carefully, she buttons her wool sweater, brushes it, and moves close to the door. I remove our luggage from the shelf above our seats, and just as I’m taking the last cardboard box…
She jumped and took her groceries with both hands from the floor, then staggered a little as the bus came to a standstill. She was moving too slowly under the burden of her parcels.
