Aba teetered between sleep and waking. Each time she drifted off, a bark or a croak or the rumble of a car rushing past roused her, so that again, she counted her breath – to not only slow it down, but also to distract herself from her thoughts, which whirled and collided like balls in a lottery machine.
In die begin was die appel ʼn aanbod.
Die Mattby metro is in ʼn mall,
Iso Omena, i.e. The Big Apple.
By Mattby trek die M1-metrokar weg
en ek voel vir my selfoon om te kyk hoe ver…
Their famous guest published an essay in which he described what happened that day. He called it Luncheon at Pretoria. It was jocular; wry. He built up the narrative with his customary care, beginning with a description of the drive from Jo’burg (thus we called it, he wrote) to Pretoria.
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.
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
