It’s sitting on these stairs that I watch the world go by and imagine my place in it. They are a portal to my dreams and imaginings.
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"I can only tell you things that happened as I saw them, and what the rest was about only Africa knows." – Oom Schalk Lourens
I wasn’t sure what it would be like going back home after 12 years. Last time, I was a decade younger, with two small girls and far less London in my bones. Now, I’ve got more kids, more wrinkles and I may have forgotten what the sun looks like.
When I’m sad I dream of home. Of lying on a dusty ground under a blue sky. And if I lie there long enough, the world forgets.
If Cream Soda does not taste the same, I am going to be sad (same with pink sauce and onion rings at Spur, and also Steers chips) so… ja, if you could hook that up.
The man breathes in deeply and, this time, puffs out sand. He’s made of the land.
The sensation of being torn comes in waves. Can I belong to two places at once? Or is it my lot to be traitor, one way or another…
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Ditching our snacks and stories we scramble around in search of would-be weapons. Shoes! Yes! These blood sucking baddies don’t know who they’re messing with.
The pigs were lying dead in the road…
The world was a strange place. Bad strange? He wasn’t sure. Often, he’d walk and walk; hunting for signs of the fight—remnants of the strangeness.
She ran. The screaming sirens terrorising her legs into motion. Every step a trauma. They all ran. Boys, girls. Lessons abandoned. Books, bags and reason thrown into chaos.