Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus

This is quite a famous story and many of you will be familiar with it. But, seeing as it is Christmas Eve, and truthfully, seeing as I am desperately clutching at anything that will propel me head first into the Christmas spirit, I thought it would be appropriate to share it again. In 1897, eight-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of New York’s Sun, and the quick response was printed as an unsigned editorial Sept. 21, 1897. The piece of writing below of newsman Francis Pharcellus Church has since become history’s most reprinted newspaper editorial, appearing in part … Continue reading Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus

“Of all that is written, I love only what a person has written with his own blood.”

Friedrich Nietzsche. German philosopher. If you don’t know him, you should. If you think you don’t know him, you’re wrong. He is famously said for, well, saying, ‘That which does not destroy me, makes me strong.’ He had a lot more to say: “You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.” “There are no facts, only interpretations.” “And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.” “For every man there exists a … Continue reading “Of all that is written, I love only what a person has written with his own blood.”

The day I looked down.

How old were you when you discovered Santa Claus wasn’t real? I was nine. Yes… nine. My parents made a huge deal out of this kind of thing. Father Christmas, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, you name it: They were all very much a presence in our house as we were growing up, and entities my sister and myself would very much look forward to seeing… and experiencing. At Christmas, we would receive a personal visit from Father Christmas. ( To be found out of course that this was infact actually my uncle dressed up as; Father Christmas in … Continue reading The day I looked down.

Do you hear them?

If you love Africa like I do, you would hear the drums too… do you hear them? Ssshh…. Turn into the wind, let your head fall back, let the hot wind blow over your face, let it dance through your hair… close your eyes, feel the warm sun on your face – now, can you hear the drums? Ssshh…. Listen… don’t fight to hear them, they will find you… open your mind to the possibility that they are there, their harmony will find you…. Their sound is far away, but their message is timeless, their presence never-ending, and they are there… and they … Continue reading Do you hear them?

Trucks passing in the night

So I’d like to talk for a moment about that feeling you get when a small, ordinary, daily happening occurs, and in that moment, the sound, sight, smell, touch of it transports you back to another moment, another time,  another you… Magical isn’t it. One such sound, for me, is the sound of a truck’s horn. As said before, a lot of my memories are faded now. I don’t have a good memory by the usual definition of the phrase. My memories are hazy, misty. But I remember how I felt, so clearly. When I was younger, less jaded, and … Continue reading Trucks passing in the night

A little mystery, a little poetry, a little different

In 2005 when one of my dear friends left the country, as so many did *angry/sad face,* she gave me a copy of Kahlil Gibran’s, ‘The Prophet.” And it is still, to this day, one of the best gifts I have ever received. On the first page she wrote, ‘A little mystery, a little poetry, a little different.’ She described it perfectly. If you haven’t read it, read it. You’ll see why. Gibran was an artist, philosopher, writer and all round awesome guy. ‘The Prophet’ is his best known work, divided into 26 chapters, each dealing with a certain aspect of life. The … Continue reading A little mystery, a little poetry, a little different

This frank embrace between lifting breast of the land and the deep blue warmth of the sky is what exiles from Africa dream of…

So if you’ve read my ‘About’ tab you’ll see a poem by Wayne Visser entitled ‘I am an African.’ If you’ve read it, you probably more or less would’ve gathered that, well, I am an African. If you haven’t read it. Read it now. You’ll see why. Africa, the continent, the people, the life that it has given me, is one of my greatest passions, my greatest love. That, and my mother’s roast beef gravy. If you’ve tasted my mother’s gravy you would know what I mean. Moving on, below is an extract from the novel “Martha Quest” by Doris … Continue reading This frank embrace between lifting breast of the land and the deep blue warmth of the sky is what exiles from Africa dream of…