The Official Release of Poetic Meditations

The official release of my album Poetic Meditations was a great success, thanks to everyone who attended – the media and stakeholders. The event was held this past Wednesday (April 16^th) at Little Theatre inside the National Museum in Gaborone, Botswana. The main objective of the media conference and listening session was to present to the media what Poetic Meditations is all about.  Many thanks to my producer Phemelo Chantty Natural Moikabi and my music partner Odirile Modesto Mokotedi. More thanks to Gabz FM, RB2, RB1, Weekend Post, Sunday Standard, The Voice, Daily News, Radio Botswana, COSBOTS, US Embassy, Botswana National Museum, Poetavango Spoken Word Poetry, Okavango Artists Association and many more for the support.

Poetic Meditations is a uniquely crafted album that fuses poetry, jazz and soul. The album offers the listener an audio version of great literary creations from a prolific award-winning writer – Legodile Seganabeng, known in poetry circles as Dredd X. 

The actual production of the album (recording, mixing and mastering) was a five-year process (2008-2013) of studio work with joint efforts between passionate, versatile and highly skilful instrument players and singers, and a patient, enduring producer.  Although time has always been of the essence, it also brought along, over the years, new innovations and creative alterations – in due course turning the five-year studio time into a fun-filled yet fulfilling experience. The album has been intended, from the very outset, to be of super international quality in terms of musical composition, verse writings, lyrical delivery, sound excellence and physical packaging.

The poems cover a wide range of themes; from social, gender and political issues to love, relationships and abstract ideologies.  Except for the first intro track, all poems are recited over backing music – a variation/fusion of jazz and soul, with poignant interactive and backing vocals to induce the various moods of the poems. While the music in the CD is very enjoyable and mood-enhancing, the poems cover issues with which the audience can easily identify. These are the everyday experiences of the common man and woman – the challenges they face and the joys they experience.

Dredd X’s baritone (and sometimes tenor) delivers the poems with exceptional clarity, where every word stands out with adequate force. However, to make it pleasurable and cool to sing/recite along, the listener is provided with an inlay booklet complete with printed poems and lyrics. The 12 page booklet is intended to give the listener an additional option of reading the poems, even when not listening to the CD. 

Fabric Madness

This story was first published in Weekend Post newspaper (18-24 February 2012) 

“It is only too true that a lot of artists are mentally ill- it’s a life which, to put it mildly, makes one an outsider. I’m all right when I completely immerse myself in work, but I’ll always remain half crazy,” so said Dutch post-impressionist painter Vincent van Gogh. Half crazy or fully blown psychosis, Van Gogh cut off his own ear and gave it as a present to a prostitute, though art historian would later argue that it was, in fact, his friend French painter Paul Gauguin who slashed it off with a sword in a fit of anger. 

Madness in art doesn’t always translate to the artist’s mental lunacy. It may - putting literal rendition aside – mean that which viewers may not directly comprehend yet its significance is not only bluntly felt but somewhat experienced. Chaotically stretched and crucified painfully at Thapong Visual Arts Centre are multicoloured pieces of fabrics, which have been, once upon a time, beautiful pieces of attire. The artworks create a visual network that spans across the entire hall, consequently imitating three-dimensional brush strokes suspended from the ceiling, pinned on the floor and nailed on walls.  

I interacted with a group of 40 artists from all around the country who met at Thapong on 1^st of February for a three days workshop themed ‘fabric as an art form.’  It was a period within which local artists and school teachers experienced a kind of art previously unknown in the country. The workshop was facilitated by American artist Victoria Greising who was brought into the country by the American Embassy. Greising works exclusively with fabrics installations. Her manipulation of fabrics, she says, “facilitates a new interaction and evokes a sense of being surrounded, protected, and enveloped by clothing.” She sees her art as a deconstruction and construction into an environment and space. Unlike a painting where the artist has the delight of mixing and manipulating colours, Greising’s works use ‘found colour.’ The ultimate colours of the artwork are thus determined by the clothing that contributed to the installation. Asked why she chose clothing, she responds; “the subcategories of clothing is more specific, yet universal. Clothing is a signifier of identity, class, culture and historical decades.” 

The group of artists under Greising’s facilitation ripped old clothes and other types of fabrics and spread into eight groups. By the end of the first day, the space they inhabited had undergone drastic transformations. Each group produced abstract or perhaps non-objective installations which began creeping on walls, crawling on the floor and most of them hanging on space like cyber creatures. The fabrics created taut and high-tension lines and shapes that interlaced around and within each other. By the end of the last day, the web of fabrics pulsated with colour, line and shape. Unlike a naturalistic piece of art, the installations at Thapong cannot be literally or directly translated. Even through the construction of the installations, most artists did not have a particular plan, idea or concept. They allowed the fabric to carry them away. They gave the material the liberty to lead the way, not the other way round as it is in traditional art making. As they worked along, one would somehow be reminded of abstract expressionist painter Jackson Pollock.   

Then again, one would wonder; but what exactly is the purpose of such art? How will the artist make a living out of such ‘madness’? When she began her facilitation, Greising explained to participants that they were about to start making the kind of art that no one will be willing to buy. It is an art made for personal gratification and visual expression. After all, the artworks are usually temporary, challenging the conventional notion of art being made to be kept for long, if not permanently. The artworks, really, looked awesome in all their colour intensity and haphazardness. But the pieces would be there for only a short while – like a temporary high one derives from drugs.   

Saxophonist Branford Marsalis once said in an interview, “I don’t care who likes it or buys it. Because if you use that criterion, Mozart would have never written Don Giovanni, Charlie Parker never would have played anything but swing music. There comes a point at which you have to stand up and say, this is what I have to do. 

The artworks, after all, are highly welcoming to the viewers. They allow viewers to walks around and within them, to touch and feel them and experience that which the artist possibly experienced.

“The transition from internal to external facilitates a different way of moving through the art viewing space. The viewer has both the experience of being a part of the piece and being a viewer of the piece,” said Greising. At the end of it all, Batswana artists went back skilled in a new, revolutionary form of expression.  

 

Memoirs of a Herdboy

This story was first published in Peolwane, Air Botswana’s in-flight magazine (May 2013)

The sweet smell of rain filled the air.  It always brought a festive and almost celebratory mood. The earth was damp, and grass still glistened with droplets from the rain. Sunlight penetrated through thin layers of clouds, creating a brilliant watercolour effect on the sky.

I watched swallows as they formed dazzling patterns - tiny aircrafts against opalescent clouds. My dog, Ranger, jumped excitedly ahead, sniffing and peeing. I learnt, years later, that Ranger was an Anatolian Shepherd breed. With my bare foot, I kicked pebbles into the rigid thickets through which I walked.

A balmy breeze wafted in from the nearby Seswe River. Over the gurgling sound of the driving water in the vessel, I could hear an occasional baa-ing of goats. I pushed through the bushes in the familiar valley, part of the natural world I had always cherished.

There they were. The flock of goats, looking happy as ever, were grazing on the freshly watered grass. I stood there and watched them from a distance, the river behind them glistening like a giant snake. They were beautiful creatures. As a young boy of only 14 years, my main responsibility at the cattlepost was to look after the family’s goats and sheep. I only occasionally had to tend to the cattle.    
           

Today, as a man of well over 30 years, I look back at the experiences I had in those ‘cattlepost’ days, and an unutterable joy warms my spirit. With the scarcity of rain these days, life at the cattlepost is shunned more than sought. Although still an important aspect of our culture, not many youths today are keen to live at their families’ cattleposts.

Towards the end of 2012 – another drought-stricken year, I travelled by public bus along the northern Maun-Sehithwa road, and watched with sorrow as the carcasses of cows, horses and donkeys lay scattered everywhere. The landscape was barren, with countable lone, bone-dry trees feebly standing on scorched earth, like defeated soldiers awaiting final bullets from the enemy.

Through the bus window, the scenery looked gross and sickening. It could have been a painting from a careless and gloomy artist. I shook my head and found myself thinking about the experiences I had had as a youth at our cattlepost, many years ago. Of course, it wasn’t all milk and honey. We had our highs and lows. We had joyous days of harvest when livestock was fat and gleeful, milk abundant and food plentiful. We also had, on the extreme contrary, very difficult and miserable drought periods.
           

Our cattlepost at Seswe is located ten kilometres westwards from the village of Tonota, in the central district of Botswana. Growing up in rural Tonota in the late 1980s, the cattlepost was a vital part of our livelihood. It was, in fact, an essential on which our very survival lay.

Every child in the household had his/her responsibilities. When schools closed for holidays, the boys would mount donkey-pulled scotch carts and head for the cattlepost. I relished driving the donkey cart. As the donkeys galloped through the bush, pulling us along, I’d sit on the iron seat and imagine myself being chauffeured in some sophisticated fantasy car.

The cattlepost was a tranquil resort for complete refreshment. It was blissful to be surrounded by Nature at all times. Ours, like those of many Batswana, was a traditional system of livestock production.              

On weekends back at the village, I’d sleep until the late morning sun spilled through the window of my room. But the cattlepost was different. Grandpa woke me up at the crack of dawn. It would still be a trifle dark, but he would already have started the fire. Grandpa had been staying at the cattlepost as long as I could remember. He was very passionate about our

animals. At times, he would live only with the company of hired herd boys. But such hired hands never lasted for long. Almost every year we’d have different helpers at the cattlepost. Most of them just disappeared, without saying good-bye and never to be seen again. And this meant that Grandpa would be staying alone, most times.  

Usually, one or two household items would vanish along with the helpers. I remember a particular day when we realised that our helper, Akhumzi, was never coming back to the settlement. The Burdizzo was nowhere to be seen. As though that wasn’t enough, the dehorning iron had also vanished.

Grandpa woke me up every morning. I didn’t need to be reminded of my routine duties. We had many goats, and so it took quite some time milking them, hence I had to start early. As for the cattle, Grandpa did the milking, but I had to be there for assistance.

The milk cows were well trained, and it wasn’t much of a hustle in roping their hind feet - for easy access to the udder. Sometimes Grandpa allowed me to milk the cows. I’d squat beside the cow, bucket balanced between my thighs. Grandpa would be smiling, as he watched my fingers massage and pull down on the udder teats, white streaks of milk squirting into the bucket. After it was frothing full, we’d release the calves to feed at the dams.     
           

After breakfast, I’d carry my slingshot, load my pockets with stones, and head out into the bush. With Ranger by my side, I’d feel assured that we’d be eating a guinea fowl or springhare for lunch. When I went out hunting, I was always in the company of two friends from the neighbourhood. We’d also bring home wild berries and fruits.

The cattle rearing system was a communal activity. This became evident especially in dry seasons when rain was scarce. In the late afternoons, cattle from different homesteads gathered at the borehole to drink. Back then, we didn’t have engine pump systems. Men would take turns cranking a huge bucket from the depths of the borehole, then releasing the water into the watering trough.  
           

Other activities that brought cattlepost communities together included the branding, castration, vaccination, disbudding and ear-marking of livestock. Since these were highly physical activities, neighbours assisted each other. Each family had its own brand and ear marks with which they could easily identify their animals. There was a wide variety of marks slashed on the animals’ ears with a knife. Tlhako ya Phala (Hoof of an Impala), Lekekete (Jagged Cut), Lephaga (Flap Cut), Sekei (Yoke Pin) Tlhako ya Kubu (Hoof of a Hippopotamus), Lenyena (Ear-Ring Cut) and Motlhala wa Kgama (Trail of a Hart Beast) are some of the popular ones.        

Neighbours were generous and supportive of each other. The most favoured food and drink were meat and milk. When a family had an abundance of meat, they’d share with their neighbours. Biltong (segwapa) and mashed meat (seswaa) were our staple foods. During one of my stays at the cattlepost, I ate so much meat that it became somewhat tasteless to me. When I look back now, I think the cattlepost experience has contributed to my having become a vegetarian today. Over the years, I had eaten too much meat, drank too much milk, and killed too many birds and animals. However, this realisation came only in my adulthood. My childhood at the cattlepost was a remarkable – and very happy, carefree - experience.
           

I didn’t like the drought season. The land was grassless, trees dry and animals scrawny. There wasn’t much milk. One afternoon, Ranger and I set out into the drought beaten wild. I had set wire traps in the underbrush and hoped they would snatch an unwary hare. Unfortunately, we came back home empty-handed.

Since there wasn’t much to do during drought-stricken times, I spent most of my days at a friend’s homestead. The yard was always packed with people. One shebeen queen there was celebrated for brewing the best beer in Seswe. But I wasn’t there for the beer. I was there for the music. It was in this yard where men with indigenous musical instruments gathered to play for the people in the yard. Music at the cattlepost was played purely for pleasure and entertainment. Although some of the musicians were highly skilled, it never occurred to them to make a living from their music.

I watched the folk musicians as they picked, plucked and pulled at their instruments. They sang songs that commented on social issues, condemned drought and prayed for rain. The guitar was made from a wooden strip hammered to an empty cooking oil can. It had only four strings stretched tightly over the wooden strip. The musicians were dexterous with their hands, but I was able to follow the finger movements and chords as they played. This was the first inspiration to a boy who, in years to come, would play guitar for a jazz band. Other musicians played the thumb piano (setinkane) and the traditional violin (segaba).

As though in competition, the musicians took turns playing, and the audience listened and clapped at the end of each performance. It seemed that most cattlepost households had a musical instrument or two.

With Grandpa’s help, I made my own guitar. The workmanship wasn’t bad, given the fact that it was entirely hand-made, without the use of tools.  The sound wasn’t as tuned and amplified as that of the shebeen guitarists; but, as Grandpa used to say, it was audible enough for my ears.     

With the onslaught of westernisation in Botswana, the youth in our communities live a modern life largely devoid of tradition. Although many people still love sour milk (madila), the cattlepost is no longer as important as it used to be. As for me, the cattlepost has shaped and influenced me in many ways; it is a part of my identity today, especially the musical side of me.     

 

REVIVING – AND REDEFINING - THE CITY OF GOLD

This article was first published in Peolwane, Air Botswana’s in-flight magazine (August 2013)

If you are one of the many whose idea of inner city Johannesburg is a crime-infested, wayward, concrete jungle to be avoided, look again. Gauteng is getting a massive face – and branding – lift

My vantage point within the descending aircraft made me gawk with mounting anticipation. In the broad periphery of my vision was a cornucopia of modern structures interspersed by patches of green spaces, and dazzling networks of roads that flowed with dense traffic. The setting sun spilled a golden illumination over every single component of the metropolitan below, creating a jaw-dropping fairytale sight.

This did not look like the city where - once upon a time - I had lived. It was my first aerial view of the ‘City of Gold’. With my face pressed against the small windowpane, I yearned to feel the whooshing air above this pulsating concrete jungle. Like an eclectic current, excitement hummed through my nerves.

For a country boy from a hot, little town up in the Okavango, the cold in Johannesburg smacked me with a sudden, almost shocking surprise. Only then did it dawn on me that this was the winter season.

Stepping out of the aircraft and onto the paving, I realised that I was in an entirely different space, with every facet a direct contrast to my home town. I had just landed at Oliver Tambo International Airport, the largest and busiest in Africa. The Joburg City Tourism Association (JCTA) had invited me to an occasion they dubbed a ‘Weekend in the City’; and, according to the invite, I was going to be shown the real deal of Johannesburg. It was a weekend aimed at casting away stereotypical notions that the city is a bubble of crime and waywardness.

My mode of transport from the airport was the remarkable, magical Gautrain – a superlative high-speed rail service that links the airport with Johannesburg and Pretoria. Riding the spotlessly clean rail car, I experienced total safety and guaranteed efficiency.

It was dusk when I disembarked the train at Park Station, the city already glowing up. Almost a decade ago, as a student here, I used to frequently walk the streets of Braamfontein.  And since my hotel was a short walking distance from the Gautrain station, I schlepped my luggage and walked to the hotel. I needed no map. This was what used to be my territory for five long years. I could feel the familiar rhythm of a city too far away from sleeping. Colour semaphored and activity swarmed in the streets. Suddenly, I felt an unsullied belonging to this place.

I joined the rest of the media invitees at The Reef Hotel, in the city’s Corporate Mining District. Speaking to members of the media and other stakeholders, JCTA’s Gerald Garner gave a warm welcome and explained the need for JCTA to embark on a move to brand the inner city of Johannesburg. Gerald is a registered tour guide and author. He manages the JCTA secretariat on behalf of the members of the association. JCTA is an organisation or club of businesses with a stake in inner-city tourism.

“In recent years, the inner city has undergone a drastic revival. In the past, Johannesburg was a city with an emphasis on its arterial links in the suburbs, with the centre regarded as risky, deadbeat and unattractive by some. We are here to promote the inner city of today, a new and dynamic place worthy of celebration,” explained Garner.

“We want you all to experience the thrill of it. And so, we’ll be walking you through the inner city. We want you to discover its energetic heart beat and its tranquil havens – ranging from nature areas and parks to cafes on sun-drenched sidewalks.

“Many people who have recently taken such walkabouts have left with their preconceived impressions shattered, and with a revived mental map and commensurate image of a city forever changed.”

Garner displayed an immense love for Johannesburg. He is author of the book Spaces and Places 2.0 – Joburg Places, published in 2012 by Double G Media (Pty) Ltd. Indeed all JCTA representatives had gone all the way to host the media, in a bid to showcase and promote the previously shunned inner city.

Together with Johannesburg Development Agency (JDA), Joburg Tourism and Gauteng Tourism, JCTA will host a week long extravaganza this month; its aim is putting the inner city firmly on the map as the must-see experience and must-visit precinct of greater Johannesburg, the vibrant heart of Joburg and the melting pot of Africa.

The festival also intends to facilitate a perception change amongst residents of Johannesburg, and in turn, amongst visitors, giving them confidence to visit the dynamic inner city and to explore everything on offer there.

According JCTA, the festival will target the inner city corporate workforce, many of whom drive to their office buildings in the morning and home in the evening, without ever exploring the city. It will reach out to the inner city residents, especially the upwardly mobile living in the 50 000 apartments refurbished from previously disused office and industrial spaces in the last five years.

As for Joburg’s suburbanite population, from Sandton to Soweto, many of whom are wary and sceptical about visiting the inner city, the festival aims to show them that this is a throbbing heartbeat, with numerous places of high significance. All these delights were presented during the ‘Weekend in the City’ media activities.

During those years when I lived in this city, I resided in the vibrant Yeoville, the rainbow suburb of Johannesburg known for its cultural diversity and a colourful suburb that attracts intellectual artists and tourists. But, on this weekend, I was seeing the inner city with completely new eyes. There was solid evidence that this was a dynamic, reborn city, with new constructions, upgraded parks and roads. One thing that touched me was the cleanliness of the streets, a plain sign that Johannesburg is being re-developed into a world class city, a place that Africa can be proud of.  

With this intense regeneration in the recent years, the city has rapidly gained an unbelievable pulse, establishing itself firmly on the international tourism map as an exciting destination.

Founded in 1886, Johannesburg is the heart of the biggest economy in Africa, and continues to pull immigrants from the rest of the country, the African continent and beyond. Garner writes in his book: “Possibly Johannesburg’s biggest claim to fame is that it was the home town of both Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Ghandi for many years.”

The history of Johannesburg is written in long scrolls, ranging from the early years when the territory was inhabited by the San people (Bushmen), to the periods when the Bantu-speaking people started moving in, finally to the discovery of gold in the 1880s, and the movements of mining investors and personnel, traders and white settlers.

South Africans of all races came through the brutal times of wars, racial discrimination and apartheid. Indeed all of this is history, as the Johannesburg of today is described as a giant three-legged pot of multi-nationalities and cultures.

Meetings, introductions and speeches over, media representatives then set out on an eye-opening tour of the revived JoBurg.

Sandwiched between Braamfontein and Hillbow is the historical Constitution Hill precinct, where the South African Constitutional Court (highest court in the country on constitutional matters) is located. This is also the site of the notorious Old Fort Prison Complex, the infamous Number 4 Prison and the Women’s Jail. A tour offers a quick time travel into the past, revealing the inhumane conditions of the apartheid era.

The refurbished streets and new structures in the Braamfrontein that was once my domicile left me totally awestruck. The ‘Neighbourgoods Market’ was a delight to visit. Stretching over two floors, it operates only on Saturdays. A wide range of delicacies and lip-smacking fresh foods are cooked in front of the customer, with a good variety of wines available to accompany the meal. The atmosphere is warm, friendly and busy, with a diverse throng of visitors.

“This is the place where people come on Saturdays,” said Rob Young, a vendor at Granny Furcey’s Pantry standing behind the counter offering chutneys and pickles… “We interact well with our customers and business is good.” He believed the market has wholly transformed the lifestyle in Braamfontein.   

Johannesburg is known as the creative hub of South Africa, attracting many people active in the arts, theatre, broadcasting, publishing, film and TV production. Downtown Newtown is a throbbing hub of arts and culture. Strolling down the city streets, you will see young dancers and singers, visual artists, photographers, a huge variety of artists at work. Theatre performances can be seen at the Market Theatre, music events at Bass Line, and art exhibitions at Museum Africa and Joburg Art Gallery, to mention only a few.      

   

The Turbine Hall has a very interesting history. Also located in Newtown, it started its life as a power station built to supply electricity to the city. Due to economical hiccups, the station was shut down in 1961. When the inner city degraded in the 1970s, due to the migration of businesses to Sandton, the Turbine Hall became a home for squatters. At that time, it was the shame of the city, a structure that everyone wished could be imploded to create space for better developments.

Today, the Forum Company has preserved and redesigned the Turbine Hall, transforming it into a five-star, first-class conference and events facility. It remains a heritage building that represents a truly iconic South African architectural style.

Café@50 is situated on the top floor of the impressive Carlton Centre (now branded Transnet), the tallest building in Africa. Here on ‘the roof of Africa’, tourists can enjoy a 360-degree view of Johannesburg, the best an African city can offer. The incredible vista of the dense cityscape can be enjoyed with a relaxed mood and scrumptious food.

At Joburg’s Ethiopian corner, called ‘Little Addis’, I felt the pulse of the heart of Africa. 

Within the Fashion District, on the east-end of town, lies the Fashion Kapitol. Garner states in his book that the magnetism of this place is perhaps caused by the fact that it constantly defies the odds, proving that even the shabbiest, dirtiest parts of town can be transformed into wonderment.

At the Fashion Kapitol, we found a fashion show in progress. The models were displaying creative designs by first and second year fashion students at SEWAFRICA. As a devotee of good art, I marvelled at the creativity and sheer innovation of the garments on parade.

At the Anglo-American Campus, located on Main Street Mall, on the west-end of town, we walked – to my judgment – the cleanest streets in the inner city I had thus far seen. The cheerful, magnificent and obviously well maintained gardens sparkled with a fresh luxuriance. It was in these splendid landscapes where I found Joburg’s most famous sculpture – ‘Impala Stampede’, or ‘Leaping Impala’, as it is popularly known.  

Our walkabout took us through the Ghandi Square. On a cold Saturday morning, the plaza was somewhat lackadaisical, a very relaxed and laid-back mood. Here a robust statue of Mahatma Ghandi stands in the middle of the square, and the power within this place could be felt in the air.

One by one, the preconceived notions slipped away, as we continued our tour.

Asked to comment on the inner city’s high crime rate and how it has changed, Mr. Shaun O’Shea, from Office of the City Manager, said: “We are aware of the incidences of crime in certain pockets of the inner city and the Office of the City Manager has taken action to address these issues. These include the placement of over 300 CCTV cameras throughout the CBD, which are linked to a central command centre with immediate South African Police Service (SAPS) and Johannesburg Metropolitan Police Department (JMPD) response units.

“In addition, the city has recently rolled out the ‘Joburg 10 Plus’ programme, which includes the deployment of 10 Metro police officers in each city ward. The region also has a special investigations and legal task team, who act in partnership with SAPS, National Prosecution Authaority (NPA), the Hawks and other role players actively involved in addressing serious crime, such as building hijackings.”

This year’s International Congress and Convention Association (ICCA) rankings placed Johannesburg 142^nd in the world, and third in Africa, after Cape Town and Nairobi (first and second places respectively). In one year’s time, the city has jumped an astounding 92 places.

This momentous climb is harbinger of the changes in attitudes and perceptions JCTA is hoping to instil, in both the local community and the world. If that important shift takes place, the City of Gold could become one of the world’s most sought after – and enjoyed - tourist destinations.

Night in a JoBurg Street

I glance at my wrist clock and gape. It reads 21:07. You know how time flies when one is enjoying. I’ve been sitting here at the back of the varsity campus canteen for hours, with a small group of friends, strumming our acoustic guitars. We call ourselves the Cafe-Crew. That’s what we always do on Fridays – sit by the cafeteria and rock the evening with our amateurish strumming and singing. We all yearn to be rock stars. Quickly I throw my guitar into its gig bag, shoulder it and strut off. The biting cold whips my face, as though in intended punishment. I thrust my hands in my pockets and listen to the whistling frosty wind as it slaps my ears. It was warm back there with our guitars. I’m always warm when I play my guitar. Now I have to walk through the brutal cold of the city of Gold. Home is quite a distance away. These are times when I wish I had a bicycle. Yes, a bicycle. A poor, third year university undergraduate can’t dream of owning a car. So I leave my friends, who either have cars or stay within campus.

I try the card for the fourth time and it’s still jammed. I’m standing by the revolving pedestrian gate that lets walking students out of the campus – one at a time. You have to scan your student card and the gate will unlock, then you step into the carousel, and out you are, into the street. But right now the gate scanner can’t read my card. At this hour, there’s no gateman to assist. I rub my hands together in attempt to generate some warmth. My fingers are freezing. And my toes too. Yet I’ll have to walk the entire breadth of the university to another gate on the other side. The thought of it sinks my heart. "Damn" I mutter to myself."

Through the bright campus lights, I see someone approaching the gate. It’s a lady, I notice: yellow jacket with a thick fur collar; a woollen scarf around her neck; tight denim pants tucked inside knee-length boots. She’s certainly dressed for the season, this young woman. A seemingly heavy handbag is strapped on her shoulder, dangling by her waist. Books, I suspect. She must be coming from the campus library. That’s what serious students do; they spend extra time in the library, not playing guitars at the back of the cafeteria. "Excuse me," I say to her and she stops to look at me. "My card has jammed and I need to exit. May I please squeeze in with you?" Usually when your card jams, you ask a friend to swipe out, and then from outside, he scans the card again and swings the gate inward. The mechanism will register that a person has just walked in. Through the fence, you take your friend’s card and bingo, you swipe out. Now this lady here isn’t my friend and I don’t want to involve her is such a laborious exercise. Besides, I really would like to squeeze in with the girl and get a share of the warmth she is wearing.

She nods. No word. No smile. Just a nod and the gate sensor beeps in response to her card. I squeeze in with her. That space is meant for one person and so I can’t help but squeeze tight. Wow. I want to go round and round the carousel. But it spits me out into the cold street. Quickly she approaches a car that is waiting outside. The girl disappears into the warmth of the car, which, in turn, vanishes into the cold of the city. "Thank you!" I say to the empty street.

I adjust my guitar bag, pull at my jacket and start walking along Saratoga Avenue. Across the street, bright floodlights of Ellis Park Stadium shine. I heard there is a big soccer match tonight. But being myself, I don’t even know which teams are playing. I look up the street. Huge neon lights blink ‘Vodacom’ atop one of JoBurg’s tall buildings - The Ponte. It is, in fact, Africa's tallest apartment building. Also glowing up in the sky is the Hillbrow Tower. These two landmarks are signatures of this city. In movies and music videos, the structures make popular backdrops for scenes. Looking at them now gives me a warm, homely feeling.

I walk. It’s quite a long walk home. First I will have to go through Hillbrow and Berea, then Yeoville and finally my hood, Observatory. Ahead there's a bridge under which there are crossroads with traffic lights. Traffic is never lackadaisical in this city. Even at this hour, it's flowing endlessly. Under the bridge it’s gloomy and murky. Somehow there are no light here, save for the greens and reds and ambers of the robots. I stop by the junction waiting for the green man on the lights to glow.

"Hey wena!" [Hey you!] a voice cuts through the dense night. I look and darkness stares back at me. "Woza la!" [Come here!] It's a commanding voice, full of authority. A thug, my mind registers instantly. But I don’t see anyone in the shadows. Dread grabs me.

"Ubani wena? U funani?" [Who are you? What do you want] I shout back but my voice gives away a trifle waver, a sign of weakness. I curse at myself silently.

"Hai fotsek, maaan! Ngithi woza la!" [Hey fuck off, man! I said come here!]

Okay, I say to myself. This here is certainly a thug. He is most definitely armed. They are always armed. He is going to rob me. I think of my watch, my cell phone and my guitar. Especially my guitar. No. I’m not going to allow him. I’m not a super hero. I’m not trained in the martial arts. But I’m not going to give my guitar to this man. Hell, no ways. It had taken me almost a whole year of monthly savings from my small student stipend to finally acquire this instrument. This isn’t just an instrument to me; it’s a companion. My guitar even has a name. I can’t imagine a day without my guitar...

"Ngithi woza la, mfoethu! Manje!" [I say come here, now!] the voice in the dark crackles.

A cheering chorus fills the air from Elis Park Stadium. A score, it had to be. I shout back again, playing strong: "Hai sukah maan! Ubani wena? Phuma!" [Buzz off, man! Who are you? Go away!] Immediately, I wish I haven’t said that. What was I thinking? But I just said it. So I will have to deal with the repercussions.

"Uthini?" [What did you say?] He’s enraged. I can feel him seething. Then I hear footsteps approaching. I can tell he’s pacing furiously. A silhouette emerges out of the shadows. I brace myself for the bullet. He’s now out in the dim light under the bridge. I can barely make out his face though he is very close to me. If he has a weapon, he doesn’t have it out.

"I don’t have any money," I say to him. "If it’s my watch you want, take it. If you want my cell phone, take it. But you are not going to take this bag on my back, Mr."

Speaking in IsiZulu, he says, "What the heck is in that bag? You have the balls, you know that?"

"I didn’t know that." I grab the guitar bag tightly. The traffic light glows green for pedestrians. Vehicles have stopped for walkers to cross. I start walking away from him, crossing the street.

"Hey, where the fuck do you think you are going? Stop here!" he gives an order but I’m already in the middle of the road. He comes following. I can see him reaching into his jacket pocket. In a second, he’ll pull out a weapon. I’ve driven him over the edge. I have a feeling he’s going to shoot me at the back of my head, in cold blood. I can feel the tension in the air. The green man on the traffic lights turns red and vehicles rev their engines, ready to zoom off.

Without warning, and like a dextrous acrobat, I jump into the back of a small van just as it launches off from the traffic light. The Opel Corsa squeals away, leaving the would-be-robber gasping in the street. The thug is shocked, astounded and amazed. My sudden, unexpected and courageous move just took him off guard; but he also looks seemingly impressed by the stunt I just pulled. He stands there like a sculpture. There is a small hand-gun in his hand. But now the weapon is as good as a piece of wood. With the bright street lights on the road, I’m sure he sees my hand as I stick out my middle finger at him, daring him to shoot. I can see him laughing just before he disappears out of sight. He’s impressed. I have impressed a thug. The driver of the Corsa catches sight of me in the rear-view mirror and rams the brakes. The car pulls to a stop on the side of the road. He reaches for the glove compartment and I think, ‘oh gosh, another gun!’

Tap, Tap, Tap in the Classroom.

I’m standing in front a small group of learners in a classroom. By my side, a stretched canvas board is perched on an easel. I have a paint brush on my right hand and a palette of paint on the other. These children are about to start a painting exercise on understanding the use of arbitrary colour. And here I’m about to demonstrate a few techniques. They sure seem very interested. Captivated, in fact. Some are smiling in throbbing anticipation.

"Remember," I say to the class. "When you mix your colours, avoid..."

A hand flies in the air. A girl on the front table. One of the smart ones. Plaited hair with a small butterfly clip on the side. Slacks and a buttoned blazer. Neat as a pin. Almost immediately, I know what it’s going to be. How can a donkey be green and trees blue? They’ve always asked that, smart ones like her. It conflicts with nature and defies logic I know, I’ve always said. But in art, everything is logic, and art is nature in itself. Most of them had been convinced. Now I hope this one will be convinced. And so, I nod a please-go-on-and-ask nod.

"Sir," she says, a little smile twitching on her lips. "Please pardon me, but I don’t intend to divert you. We always read and hear that you write and tell stories. Can you please tell us a story? A brief one, Sir, please?"

Honestly, I’m taken aback. For a moment I’m lost of words. Surely this is not a literature class. "Okay look," I say to her, trying not to smile, though unsuccessfully. "That’s true. I write and tell stories. But I also paint stories. So here today we’ll all be painting our stories. Painting is a very..."

"No Sir," she shakes her head stubbornly. ‘We want to hear a story from you because..."

"When you say ‘we’ you are including everyone else. But it’s only you who wants a story told. Other learners want to paint now. Maybe we should..."

Suddenly all the hands in the classroom are straight up, like antennae searching for signal. Some are even raising both hands! "Now what?" I squint, trying to read their little faces, I mean, come on, I’ve studied child psychology. They all want a story, I reckon. They want to hear a story, period. They have me under siege. No story, no painting. I sigh in despair and put the brush and the palette on my desk.

"Okay, you win!" I say, throwing my hands in the air. They clap hands, these children, they clap hands.

"Once upon a time when I was your age," I start and the applause dies. "I wasn’t as smart as you are, of course, but that was the case with most of us, the youth of our generation. We had a different kind of smart. An interesting kind of smart." There is a thick, tangible silence in the classroom. For the first time, I notice that one of the taps at the back sinks is leaking, as steady and slow drops hit the metal of the basin. Tap... tap... tap...

One boy shifts on his chair, making himself more comfortable. One props his chin on his palm, elbow pinned on the table, eyes gazing at me. "I was almost always top of my class with whistle clean straight A’s, particularly in my favourite subject, Art. I was simply unbeatable, and my classmates knew that. But one day," I wag my finger for effect. "A new boy – apparently transferred from another school – arrived in my Art class." I can feel their ears zooming in. They are thirsty for a story, I can tell by the concentration in their eyes. "He stopped on the doorway, his rucksack balancing on one shoulder. His eyes scanned the classroom. He was looking for something. Everyone was looking at him; olive dark skin with a cluster of pimples dotting his expressionless face. His eyes fell on mine. Then he lifted a finger and pointed at me. I looked behind me, thinking that perhaps he was pointing at something on the wall behind, but his eyes were focused squarely on mine. Then he spoke, loud enough for the entire class and the teacher to hear." I pause.

These children’s eyes are swimming with anticipation. Please go on, Sir, their eyes are pleading. Tap... tap... tap... I go on.

"Still looking at me, he said, ‘Kiss your superior excellence goodbye, sonny boy.’"

"Aaaah!" the children in my painting class exclaim. It’s a chorus that bounces on the walls of the classroom. I continue.

"That’s what they did too, my classmates. They aah-ed and ooh-ed, but not me, the victim of the humiliation. I was shocked. Who was this gutsy little boy with a raspy little voice? How dare he come threaten me in my territory? And worse, he just called me ‘sonny boy’. The pencil in my hand was shaking slightly, revealing that which will haunt me throughout my school days. I put the pencil on the table and stood up to face the daring boy. I didn’t look at the teacher, who was probably dazed as well. I didn’t look at my classmates either. I looked at the boy on the doorway. He did not know that I wasn’t only a master of art in my school. I was also a master weaver of words! I needed not think them out first. My words were always on the ready. And so I opened my mouth to let out a bombshell that was visibly vibrating on my lips..."

The children in my painting class are holding their breaths. Some mouths are slightly agape. Waiting. Waiting for the next line of the story. Waiting to hear what I said to the new boy in my Art class back in the days when I was their age. Will there be any painting exercise today? I wonder. Silence pulses in the classroom - an almost frightening silence punctuated by a steady dripping. Tap...tap...tap...

Blood and Phlegm

I woke up and blew my nose. Blood spurted. I panicked. Even after all these years of living, I still can’t get used the sight of blood.  But then I reassured myself that it was only a sign that I was healing from the cold. I bled for nearly 15 minutes and the headache just wouldn’t leave me the hell alone. When I staggered to the bathroom with rolls of tissue soaked in blood, I thought I was dying. Sick thought, I know. But then what was I to think when blood spilled from one nostril and phlegm oozing from another, throat dry and coughs bursting in the chest like a raspy exhaust of an old van? And still, I had to go to work. I had to wait for the bleeding to stop and throw my feet on the road to work, schlepping a heavy cross on my shoulders. The day was, needless to say, dull. Every time I blew my nose, blood threatened to spill down. So I refrained from blowing. Now you can imagine a grown up man like me sniffing and gurgling with mucus-filled throat. All day. I felt like a baby.

Of an Angel, Your Hands (Poem)

Of an angel, your hands, every time you touch me
Wonder sometimes where your wings could be
Your touch sinks beyond the layers of my skin
Throwing my soul on a wild, joyous spin
A look in your eyes melts the marrow in my bones
Your eyes, two very precious stones
Oh, what you are made of, I cannot tell
From your sweet spring I drink and swim in your warm well
Hold me again, angel of love, and let me feel your heart beat
The drum that keeps me dancing on my feet…