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.