A collection of stories by South Africans
A collection of stories by South Africans
"I can only tell you things that happened as I saw them, and what the rest was about only Africa knows." – Oom Schalk Lourens
It was our first trip to the Pilanesberg with our 2-year-old daughter Chloë and we were excited to introduce her to African wildlife. On our drive down, we imagined her little face… seeing a giraffe or a zebra from her story books for the first time.
Read more
Mom grips my arm and looks up at me, saying in a quiet shriek (it’s possible—trust me), “Love, I can’t see out of my right lens. My eye! I must be going blind!”
We drove for a bit and I ended up taking a couple of wrong turns, taking us into that part of Hillbrow—gangsters, street vendors, addicts, prostitutes, dilapidated buildings, abandoned vehicles, trash, crime, murder, rape, pillage…that sort of stuff. We were lost.
He approached the barman and speaking in a voice laden with Welsh said, “Excuse me, where’s the toilet?” And the guy just looked at him. So, he repeated, “Excuse me, the toilet?” Nothing.
Out of nowhere (as is typical in Kruger) we spot some baboons strolling out onto the road in front of us, so we slow down and watch them go. After a while, we start thinking, “Jeez, they’re taking a long time just to get across the road”…
Delivering meat to Spur and meeting Rodriguez at SABC Studios—a usual but not-usual day in Joburg…and all the while the world was ending.
Read more
The robber’s grave was turned the other way. A scarlet letter on the landscape. On our school trip to Pilgrim’s Rest in the Eastern Transvaal (now Mpumalanga) we learnt about the gold rush, did some panning, bought some guinea fowl curios, saw the majestic Mac Mac, Horse Shoe Falls and Bridal Veil Falls—but the robber’s grave.
I knew immediately when they had spotted us; the Cujos went berserk. I froze. And tried to think past the I-am-going-to-eat-your-heart-out-if-you-so-much-as-breathe noises that were emanating from the barking banshees above me to the right.
As dark descended we imagined thousands of impis creeping their way through the long grass, closer and closer to the mission—and then the sudden light upon their faces as the Red Coats set the roof on fire. Guns firing, assegais penetrating; the vicious cries of war.
The view was incredible, stretching the eye to Langermann’s Kop across the valley. It was dark inside. Gloomy. But in a mystical, magical kind of medieval way that ignores the horrendous hygiene, disgusting food, rotting teeth, dubious medical practise and bubonic plague more typical of the time than any cliché of marvellous masquerades and happy ever afters.