Write Your Story – The collection

https://writeyourstory.co.za
2020
1. Love's Grief - Eddiebhila

By Eddie Bhila

Leaving you bruised and afraid, blue-eyed and half-blind to his bullshit as he kissed you goodbye in
the morning, going to work. And you sat mourning your lost tooth but still determined to make it
work

How can I love you, when my brother being my father's son believes in the powers of fists in
straightening up a woman bending out of shape, like a hot-rod banged against the table.

And not bang like the big bang theory of how the universe was formed.

A once-off bang that supposedly gave way to life.

No no.

Not bang like how you bang a drum to produce sounds pleasing to the ears of the little boy in the
room next door as he lay in bed about to sleep...no!

But bang like the sound of a gunshot sending chills down the spine of that little boy next-door
knowing that someone is being killed tonight; and there is nothing he can do about it except say a
little prayer with his hands covering up his ears to block the cries from the other side, while his face
fills up with tears. But he loves her, like his father loves his mother

How can I love you when the first lesson learned of women was how you derailed the progress of
the whole human race, by presenting that juicy, luscious apple to that unsuspecting, susceptible yet
blameless “A”-man whom in his loneliness, thirst and hunger failed to resist you and your fruit.
Now all you are is a bearer of fruit, a homeless tree on the side of the street where any man in his
journey rests on your shade, feed on your fruit to quench his thirst and be on his way.

How do I love you when I have never seen a way to love that looks more like love than hate?

When my peers impregnate and discard mother and daughter but cherish and treasure if said child
be son to pass on their shameful names and carry on forth their shameless genes and live to witness
how the poor in mind treat those that depend on them for love and security

What is to love you when lovers fire shots aimed at the hearts of those they claim to love? And not
shots like cupid's shots whose shots will set your heart beating filled with uncontrollable affection,
desires and a zeal for life

But gunshots...meant to stop a heart from beating

Love wearing the face of hate, they are siblings.

Raised under the same roof, born of the same mother and father.
Their looks both resemble the father. Two sides of the same coin, both grew up to the same chilling
sound of the silently crying mother as father punched away.

Hate became him as he punched at his girlfriend's body like a punching bag, just as he has seen how
his father did. But just a door away love laid in bed trying to slip away into a safe space and say a
prayer that his hands heal all it touches and that his voice breeds life and undo his family curses

Well how can I love you?

For I am love itself, living to rectify the errors of my fathers and brothers!

Taken from the book titled: The Black Chronicles Reflections from the Dark Side

available on ebook from amazon via link www.amazon.com/author/eddiebhila

2. The Hand that Rocks the Cradle - 2020-09-28 07:30 - talk2thesna

By Thesna Ashton

There are very few things as helpless and vulnerable as a newborn baby.

A baby comes into this life and the only form of communication it has is a cry when trying to indicate
unhappiness or stress.

In the animal world, when humans are not present, the animal that births its baby knows what to
do. It is instinctive to feed them, protect them, and finally to teach the young one how to be
independent in the world they live in.

With humans, it's not so straightforward because the helpless infant we cradle; the one that knows
nothing and looks around and up to another human to guide and love it has no idea how to cope and
will die from lack of food and love.

A baby will look at the person that's in their life for nourishment; nourishment of food and drink and
love. It will relay its distress in the form of crying and crying is a language, the only language they
know.

The hand that rocks the baby's cradle is the one that at that moment in time that has the power of a
God in its hands. If a parent is loving and kind and has very few hang-ups in life, it's expected that
the baby will grow into a productive, well-adjusted citizen that can make a meaningful contribution
to life and more often than not that is precisely what happens.

If the parent is abusive, racist, and hateful, its rare that the baby will grow up to be the exact
opposite unless it is exposed to people that are different from the parent. The power of nature is
such that racism as one example has been able to flourish for centuries based on primarily nature,
not nurture factor. Of course, often the baby as a child is exposed to both.

Just imagine what the world would be like if as humans we all knew the immense power we wield
and we live consciously enough and have enough love and compassion within us to want to change
the world. We could quite easily change the world to a better one that we inhabit; the one where
hate, violence and greed are at the forefront and love and peace is somewhere stuck at the back of
the line. Our world could consist of peace, love and harmony and compassion for those that don't
have or are different from us, but there is a fundamental aspect of our human psyche that is not
imparted to these vulnerable babies that we could mould into anything much as we do with clay-
that is will.

There has to be a willingness to change because without that we simply regurgitate what we have
learned from the hand that rocked our cradle and that is then communicated to the next generation.

There is no desire in most humans that are hateful, violent or racist to change the status quo. They
revel in the power that this affords them and are eager to impart that to their children.

The hand that rocks the cradle, after all, rules the world.

A poem by William Ross Wallace:

(1819-1881)
Blessings on the hand of women!
Angels guard its strength and grace.
In the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Infancy's the tender fountain,
Power may with beauty flow,
Mothers first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls unresting grow —
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Woman, how divine your mission,
Here upon our natal sod;
Keep – oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Relationships – Is Love Enough? - 2020-09-21 08:15 - Eloise

By Eloise Greeves

I had a conversation with a friend last week, and she asked a question I was pondering on for a
while. She asked me, “Is love enough to sustain our relationships?” That question made me take a
closer look at all my relationships. People often ask this question when it relates to marriage or
intimacy, but I think we need to look a little further. John Lennon penned a song called, “All you
need is love”, but both his marriages fell apart and rumour has it that he abused both his wives. So,
is love enough? Then 35 years later, Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails wrote a song called “Love is
Not Enough.” And his life story is quite different from John Lennon’s. He married one woman, had 2
children from her, and then stayed home to be a good husband and father. So what was the
difference between these 2 men? I do believe a lot has to do with their understanding of just what
love is, and realising that love is not an antidote for all our problems in the world. Love does not
solve anything, with love comes some very hard and difficult instead.

We live in a society that idolizes love. Many a young girl longs to hear her boyfriend tell her how
much he loves her. We all, whether we believe it or not, want to be in love. Hollywood portrays
love as the final destination in life, and if you do not attain it, then there must be something wrong
with you. From where I am standing, as an observer of life, I think we need a lot more than just
love. The question that now presents itself is, “what else do we need?” Allowing ourselves to be
fooled into believing that love is enough for our relationships to be sustained is absolutely
ridiculous. Surely judging by the number of divorces and broken families, we need to realise that so
much more is needed that just to a simple I love you. And what do we mean when we so easily say
those three little words?

I have heard it said that love is not a feeling. It is an act of your will. It is a choice you actively
make. I think these statements are closer to the truth. When we put choice into the picture, it gives
us a wider spectrum of understanding love. It brings issues such as respect, trust, commitment and
ultimately being willing to ignore the little irritations and petty differences between the parties
involved in any given relationship, into play. When all these aspects work together for the common
good of all parties, then we have true love. Then we can say we are in love. I watched the movie,
“Why did I get married a while back, and there is a little scene where all the partners meet on the
beach for their final discussion. Earlier in the day, they invited an elderly couple to join them. When
asked why the got married, the elderly woman points out some things about the old man that
irritates her, and in response, her husband just jokes about it, but that scene I would say epitomises
true love. Yes, he irritates her, but there is an undeniable connection between them that is built of
years and years of mutual respect and commitment that overshadows any negativities between
them, and that I believe is the foundation of love.

All our relationships need to be built on that foundation. That is what makes is family. It is in the
face of our disagreements that love shines through when we decide to love each other. Without
that, our relationships are doomed from the start. Now before I get branded as a cynic, let me say
this. I do believe that true love is possible, and true love can cause our relationships to become an
immovable fortress. A refuge we can run into in times of trouble. But it will require nurturing and
hard work. If we are willing to do the work, we will enjoy the benefits that come from having strong,
resilient relationships that flourish even in the hard times

"No one falls in love by choice, it is by chance. No one stays in love by chance, it is by work. And no
one falls out of love by chance, it is by choice." Unknown

More about Eloise Greeves

Test of faith - 2020-09-16 07:56 - mamaafricalelo

By Nompumelelo

It was on this beautiful sunny Sunday afternoon, and I was coming from church. Well, the service
was on fire I guess, because I know people were shouting and crying and many people went for the
altar call.

The preacher was talking about "the power of forgiveness" and you can imagine how the service was
because all of us we go to church. but there's these little demons of rage eating the hell out of us.
We all want to be set free from hate and rage but it's never easy, well maybe for others it is, but not
for me (story of another day maybe).

I came back from church and when I was about to enter the gate I kind of thought I heard a familiar
voice calling my name. Cathy, Cathy wait up.... I looked up and for the first time in my life I thought
God is testing me.

Okay, I know I'm from church but this devil is raising up some demons I thought I hurried. Leave me
the hell alone John. I was getting angry, ok, I was angry actually because the thought of him just took
away the whole sermon I received today. He let go of my hand and stood there starring at me with a
very shocked looked. Well he has never seen me shouting like that with so much anger before. Like
really God, did you have to, couldn't you at least allow me to get home and deal with the demons
alone instead of bringing the demon live?

I mean it's been 5 years since I last saw him and the last time, he saw me I was a stupid naive little
girl desperate for love and attention. This man standing in from of me left me pregnant for a girl he
just met on the internet. We dated for full 4 years and before I could even tell him I'm pregnant he
was gone. You know the suffering I went through for that pregnancy! I know it may sound inhumane
to say this but I'm glad the child never made it to this earth. You got to understand that I left my
good paying job back in Durban and settled for a job I hated so that I can be close to John after he
begged me with willingness to marry me. I gave up life for him and how did he repay me? For
heaven sake, you can't promise marriage and after 4 years you say you not feeling this relationship
just for a girl you just met on Facebook, and 5 years later you show up and wanna hold my hand, are
you insane!

Hello Cathy, long time John said. I stood there for a while still wondering if I'm dreaming or really
God is testing my faith. With a deep sigh I responded. Hey John. I didn't want to wait up so I opened
up my gate and the next moment he held my hand.

One thing this guy never knew was that I laid in hospital for weeks after the miscarriage because I
was suffering from a real depression. Looking at him that day all I saw was vengeance. I wanted to
hurt him, actually make him suffer for all that he put me through. "Cathy I'm very sorry, I was stupid
I know for what I did to you, I never should have left. I ran after 2 minutes noodles and left a real
woman for nothing. I messed up and please can you forgive me. I know I don't deserve it, but I'm
begging you (as he got down on his knees).

Something funny happened. I think all I ever wanted for all those years was to hear him say "I'm
sorry I was stupid". Crazy I know hey. Or maybe the 2 minutes noodles just got me boastful. Lol! I
looked at him and I began to laugh. I am very sure he thought I'm crazy too. Somehow I began to see
a stupid little immature guy who was still figuring out his manhood power and the preachers words
were filling up my ears: " forgiveness is for you to be free, it's not for the next person". Oh wait God:
so you not really testing me, you are actually setting me free! Wow, God you just amazing.

John, I forgive you, I truly do. Actually, I understand that you were not worth my destiny and I'm glad
you came back to your senses, but this lady standing right in front of you deserves better, way
better. And she just realised long ago that you made a mistake ( I mean I was not going to show him
that I hated him with passion few minutes ago, for what, so that he can be more happy? Oh no girl,
this girl gotta get in control) and I understand, it's just that some mistakes you gotta pay for them.

I looked ahead of me as I see my husband coming to my rescue from this stranger in front of the
yard on his knees for his wife. This guy gotta be having some balls!
Dead but Forgotten - 2020-09-11 07:35 - Eddiebhila

By Eddie Bhila

The rate at which people dying around us as a result of this covid evil is alarming. It has everyone
worried that they or someone they love might be next. Everyday there is an RIP on a social media
post with a young person’s photo attached to it. This has a lot of us too conscious of our mortality,
especially we young people who had figured death was something too distant from us as we kept
planning for a future that now, for the first time feels uncertain.

My younger sister died in 2016, she was 28 years old at the time. It was four years ago this month.
She died in July. For the first time this year we have started talking ideas of commemorating her life.
Maybe it is because her daughter is grown up now and always reminds us to talk about her. She
looks so much like her mother that looking at her makes me want to smile and cry at the same time;
Smile for the pleasure of seeing the light that is my sister shining through this beautiful niece of
mine; cry because my sister is not here to witness this brave little soul growing up to be just like her,
forced to grow up without the love of her mother.

I choose to believe my sister is out there looking out for her only child. Otherwise the thought of her
having been reduced to nothing is unsettling. However, that seem to be the dominant thought for
our generation. We are so quick to accept without question that the life energy is the only energy
that can be destroyed, when science taught that energy can neither be created nor destroyed.

For the first time since we last laid her to rest four years ago, we visited my sister’s grave site to
clean up around it. We have never been so ashamed as a family and also as African people. We got
lost!!! This I mean in many ways. None of us remembered which side Beatrice’s grave was. We drove
around the cemetery hoping to spot a landmark from the day of the funeral, maybe a tree the grave
was close to, anything to remind us. We got out of the car, walked around reading headstones for
names, but there was nothing. After a while of searching, my younger brother stood still and closed
his eyes for a moment, then quietly started walking alone to a different direction from where we
were searching. As if in a trance, he just kept walking. He was not even looking to the sides in a
searching manner like we had been doing. He walked on then got into some bushes and paved some
branches to find Beatrice Bhila’s headstone! There it was, hidden by overgrown grass and some large
thorn trees.

What made our beloved’s grave so hard to find was not that it was covered by overgrown grass, but
rather the fact that almost all the other graves around it were also covered in the same manner,
even making it very difficult to walk around that cemetery. This was an obvious sign that people do
not care about the graves of their loved ones. It is as if the graveyard has been turned into a waste
disposal site where people go and throw away people they no longer have use for. After burials,
people never remember to visit where their loved ones have been laid to rest; they don’t remember
to care for their graves to ensure peaceful rest. This makes me wonder if in my death, will I also be
thrown away in this manner, and forgotten as something that people no longer have any use for?

African spirituality teaches that the dead become our ancestors who have moved to a different
realm, closest to God and thus they become our messengers. Through them, we can communicate
to God and acquire the almighty’s favour. This ritual requires that you visit the place where the loved
one is laid to rest and bring them water and whatever drink they enjoyed while they were still
among us, then tell them your desires. These teachings, however, seem to have been lost to us. We
believe that the dead have nothing to do with the living yet when we pray in our various religious
rituals, we do so in the name of another who died, much longer ago.

If the dead still had this status of ancestors in our cultures, their places of rest would not be in ruins
as the graves which cover the remains of our loved ones today. We would not be as lost as we are,
as a people today.

After cleaning and generally visiting at my sister’s grave, we went to see my grandfather’s grave. My
grandfather passed away in 2008, 8 years before my sister passed on. His grave was cleaner than
most graves in the graveyard and obviously well cared for. It was clear that the grave housed a body
of a man who was once a father, a husband, and now a cherished ancestor. The reason my
grandfather’s grave was so clean is because every time my uncles have some new developments in
their life, they visit where their father is laid; my one uncle recently bought a car, and this was the
first place he took it before taking it for a spin.

More about Eddie Bhila

Rebel without a Cause - 2020-09-07 08:14 - talk2thesna

By Thesna Aston

Rules are there not to frustrate you but to accommodate you.

We all have seen the person that rushes off at a 4 way stop disobeying the traffic rules whilst others
sit patiently waiting for their turn. Then there are those that push to the front of a queue in a
supermarket ignoring the people that are lined up.

Still there are a few that would stand in a queue with a trolley that specifically is meant for baskets
only and a "10 items or less" queue. There's very few things that get me wanting to knock some
sense into them by chastising them in a loud voice that will hopefully embarrass them. The disabled
parking that is reserved for people with disabilities is often used by these able-bodied people who
are in a rush to pop into a place for a "quick bite" or item.

These types of people like to view themselves as rebels; rebels rebelling against the system. Sadly,
there is no just cause that they have in mind. Their inconsiderate and rude manners don't come to
the fore to highlight inequalities that exist or uplift the underdog. In effect, they are rebels with no
cause. They are out for themselves and "rebel" because they don't want to wait in line. They are
much like the anti-maskers during the Covid-19 pandemic that will have a hissy fit because they
don't want to wear a mask irrespective of them being around vulnerable people.

It's not rebelliousness that is at play here but bullying and tantrum-throwing. It's actions of people
that have not become accustomed to social norms such as politeness. By their reckless actions these
"rebels" or rather bullies, delay everyone in the queue at the supermarket, nearly cause accidents by
speeding off when it's not their turn and feel nothing when people with disabilities have to park
further from an entrance to a place because the parking designated for them is occupied by the
bully.

Their needs trump everyone else's and they make it obvious by their lack of empathy and basic
humanity. These people are entitled and believe that they are the only people that matter in this
world.

Rebels fight to change laws, to free a country, to emancipate people. They do not fight and push
people aside simply because they are in a hurry or impatient. There is no cause just enough that
undermines and disrespects basic humanity.

More about Thesna Aston

A Tree Has Fallen - 2020-08-27 09:52 - QueenCandice
By Candice Ndevu

A tree gives life. It provides us with oxygen when we need it the most. It's leaves so green and thick.
It's roots so entrenched in the soil and water it's almost unshakable. What we fail to realise as
humans is that trees too reach their end. They get tired from the wind blowing and heavy rains and
dreadful snow. The things of this earth can reduce us to sleep. Sleep that never ends, sleep that is
eternal.

June is never a good time for the family. We know death is inevitable. A curse we will need to break.
A cycle that has never changed over the years. It's Thursday afternoon and I've just finished writing
my June supplementary matric exams. Last paper was History. My mind cannot grasp the concept of
mastering Hitler in 2004 but it's all good. Hitler it was and I aced the paper. Well, at least I pray so.

There's a buzz outside the school. Matriculants are happy they are done and cannot wait for the
break. They club money together and plan what drinks will be bought. Fortunately for me I have no
one to impress. I'm an outsider. I'm half black and half coloured. Neither of the groups made sense
to me. My eyes where not brown enough to be coloured and my hair has never been thick enough
to be Xhosa either. I kept to myself most of the time and focused my spare time on reading and
being Granny's favorite grandchild. Ndileka, that was her name. So soft spoken, super intelligent and
had now time for mediocrity. It was 100% in every exam or you don't tell her anything at all. A
perfectionist of note. Well, I would be too if I matriculated at the age of 14 with straight As in all my
subjects. In fact, I'd be cocky as hell. But she was the opposite, very humble, very grounded and hard
working.
It's Thursday so as per norm I point my left index finger for a R4 taxi home, leaving my classmates at
the corner discussing which gin will get them drunk the quickest. I attend a mixed race school. You'd
really only find Xhosas and coloureds. We are the only kids at school who speak in an accent. Every
day I'd have to explain how I've never been to America. The taxi goes around the bend and over the
Buffalo river. I'm almost home. I just want to watch TV and help my sister with her baby Alix. He's 6
months old. I arrive home and sister dearest is sitting on the stoep preparing for her grade 11 June
exams. I walk pass her. We are not very fond of each other and really doesn't bother me any more.
I've made peace with it.

I hear Ma in the room. She's getting ready for her usual Thursday women's gathering at the
Methodist Church down the road. I fix her uniform and grab baby Alix and place my skinny body on
the coach. We had 2 meals a day. Breakfast which was always porridge and dinner. I'm not hungry, I
look at the clock and scream "ma, it's time to go". She rushes out and spots my ANC Youth League
membership form and reminds me to put away safely. I give her a glance over the green leather and
she gracefully walks out the door.

The phone rings. I check the time, it's 16h00. No ways mom would call now. Prisoners are locked up
already. Portia would never call at this time on a Thursday because she knows her mom is at church.
I allow the line to continue ringing. After 7 rings I pick up. A heavily breathing lady is screaming on
the other end. I recognize the voice. It's one of the ladies from church. She yells Ma just had a
stroke. I run out the door and dump Alix on his mom's lap and sprint out the door. I make it to the
church in less than 15 minutes. Hands grab me as I enter. My eyes filled with tears I make my way to
the woman who's raised me, loved me, nurtured me and protected me all my life. She's helpless,
"please don't take me EL private. I prefer At Dominics." Portia's husband has arrived. We carry her in
the car and speed off. Another phone is ringing, my heart stops. Hello, oh, it's Portia. I brief her as to
what's happening, she hangs up.

East London is called "Eazy E". People here are very laid back. No sense of urgency. I swear if the
speed limit was 120 k/h they would protest. They tell us to wait in line. I hold back my anger and
after 10 minutes I stop a doctor walking pass rushing to theater. He sees the pain in my eyes and
calls for help. Off Ndileka goes in her stretcher and I can't see beyond that point. Forms must be
completed and guess I'm here now, I might as well do it. It's dark outside, the cold has settled in
nicely and I can feel the chills inside of me. Didn't realize that those where death chills. At 8pm the
doctor walks out and tells us there's nothing more they can do. "She'll never make it through the
night" I storm out the hospital and go wait near the car.

Home is flooded with cars, our Reverend is here. Ma was a highly respectable leader in church, it's
normal in the Methodist culture for all these cars to be here. People are crying, some are having
useless chats in the kitchen and all I need is a shower and her bed. I do exactly that and shut out the
noise in the background. My heart can't comprehend the possibility of losing this woman. She's so
forgiving and loving. What will happen to us? How will I write my final exams going through all of
this?. The room is dark with a dim light penetrating through the cracks of the door. Her queen size
bed is all of a sudden too big. I shift to the floor and sleep there.

Friday morning, no exams, no school. logic tells me to go to hospital and I do exactly that. Ma is still
alive. Laying cold on a bed with no drip on. I pay her mouth with a wet tissue, try speaking to her but
she's not responding. Saturday, Sunday, Monday same story. I don't give up. At times I'd walk to go
see her. A week later I have no more energy left inside of me to see her in that state. Home will have
to do for the day. 9:05 a phone rings. I cringe again, my heart stops for a few seconds and I hear a
scream. Her only surviving younger sister runs out and cries in the street. The day we had all feared
has finally arrived. Ma is gone. The tree that protected us all is no more. A martriach has fallen and
life as we know it will never be the same again. She was so obsessed with God that even in her last
days she opted for a Godly way to die. Falling ill in church and her final breath leaving her body 7
days later is a true symbol of completion.

More about Candice Ndevu

The day I fell in love with Chess - 2020-08-25 08:17 - Eddiebhila
By Eddie Bhila

The day I fell in love with Chess.

I was in my first year of University when I first encountered the game of Chess up-close. I had seen it
from a distance before but never paid it no mind because I did not understand it and I had never
seen two people play. My neighbour at home had a set but I doubt he even knew how to play. I
believe he enjoyed having people assume he was a chess player.

The game of Chess is a battle of ideas; ideas which occur in the mind and communicated on the
chess board for others to witness. This is why it is considered a game for smart people, because to
be smart basically means to have ideas and being able to effectively communicate them for others
to appreciate.

I had the fortune of meeting this beautiful and smart girl named Sam in my English class and we just
couldn’t stop talking to each other. We spoke about everything from literature, philosophy, religion,
politics, music, art and everything that we could possibly think of when together; we spoke over the
phone, we texted, we spoke in person until she was convinced that I was also smart. That is when
she decided to introduce me to her mother. Sam’s mother was a business woman. She cautioned me
that her mother loved having mentally stimulating conversation and had a grave dislike for the
intellectually challenged. But as far as she was concerned, I was safe.
One afternoon Sam invited me to her mother’s house in the Northern Suburbs of Johannesburg and I
met her family. Her two older sisters who were both doing their post-graduate degrees at Wits
University and her younger brother who was still in high school. The eldest sister named Bianca, was
doing her PhD in Educational Psychology and she just could not stop talking; she couldn’t stop
talking about her ideas to improve the education system in the country; the psychological effects of
kids learning in a language that is not their home language; the research she had done to prove that
being multilingual has mental development benefits for children; and that if Chess was introduced to
schools, the drop-out rate would be reduced by nearly 60 percent, all other factors withstanding.

Carla, the second oldest, was a quiet type who only spoke when spoken to. She was doing her
honours in Psychology at the time and one would’ve expected her to engage Bianca and turn the
presentation into a conversation. But alas, experience has taught her it was better to let her sister
finish.

Sam called me away to a dining table with a gold and bronze metal chess set and asked if I wanted to
play. I said “I would love to; I just don’t know how”. Then she said, in a hush tone, “it’s okay, I will
teach you”.

Her mother came down the stairs and asked in a none-threatening sweet voice; “What kind of a man
does not know how to play Chess?” I turned to look at her and found she was smiling. She opened
her arms inviting me for a hug and said; “Hello Eddie, welcome to my humble home. We’re glad to
have you”. Then she invited me to the living room where we had been sitting before with Bianca and
Carla. I kept on musing to myself about how there was nothing humble about their beautiful home;
the African art all around the walls; the African statues at almost every corner; the heavy wood on
the designs of all of the furniture; in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room and even the patio
furniture. Everything just looked African, big, heavy, strong and luxurious just like her.

Mrs. Brief told me about herself, her family and her love for education. She explained that they were
observant Jews and their religion promoted the importance of developing oneself through
education. She stated that theirs was a religion/culture of laws and one cannot understand and
appreciate the laws of Moses without a bit of Education. She admitted that she was not privileged
enough to get the opportunity to further her studies growing up but now that almost all her kids are
university educated, she felt challenged to better herself; “one should never stop learning hey,
Eddie? If you relax, you find your own kids telling you they cannot take your high school educated
opinion seriously. I have been there, my own daughters telling me ‘mommy you cannot understand
this, it’s complicated’. Complicated for whom, me? The same person that raised you? I just couldn’t
take it anymore so I enrolled myself to study Egyptology through Unisa. I am doing my final year
now.”

Mrs Brief invited me to come with them to the Kalahari in December for the holidays. I accepted
without hesitation, even though I still needed to consult with my parents first. I knew they wouldn’t
mind. The year came to an end and I had made sure my academic performance was outstanding to
avoid feeling awkward whenever academics were discussed. We met at the Briefs’ house and
Bianca’s boyfriend was also invited to come along. Also in our company was the family’s Rabbi from
their Synagogue who was invited by Mrs. Brief because he had no one to spend the holidays with;
his family was in England. We drove to an Air-strip in the outskirts of the city and boarded a small
plane that seemed to accommodate no more than 10 passengers. We were the only passengers
flown by two pilots who came to introduce themselves. One male and one female.
As soon as the plane was mid-air, Mrs Brief took out a magnetic chess set and asked if anyone cared
for a game. Garth, Bianca’s boyfriend jumped to the opportunity being careful to announce that he
had not played in a while. Suddenly everyone went quiet and seemed to be focusing on the game
happening in front of us. It seemed as if Garth and Mrs Brief were absorbed in a deep conversation
and everyone else was listening in and I was the only one who did not understand the language. I
could read their faces as their expressions shifted with every move made; the slight nods to
acknowledge the point made; the concealed smiles as one finally figures the opponent’s tactical idea
and moves to disable it; the silent cheers from the captive audience; the sneers as one player makes
a blunder messing up a beautiful position. The whole experience just left me puzzled and in awe of
how these small pieces moving in a board could communicate so much; how Mrs. Brief and Garth
could be getting closer and closer to each other over a board game; understanding and appreciating
each other’s wits without making use of words; how so many ideas could be silently exchanged from
one mind to another. I had never seen anything like it. I knew then that there was something very
special about the game of Chess.

More about Eddie Bhila

Eloise Greeves (2020-08-25 08:21:11)

Eddie, yet another beautifully written piece. I used to play chess as a youngster, but I never really
understood the game. This piece has definitely stirred the desire to get back into the game. Your
love for chess is very evident. Thank you for sharing.
Our Wings are Clipped: - 2020-08-21 09:11 - talk2thesna

By Thesna Aston

Dear men:

I think in my early teens, once because of a dare, I grabbed a man's butt. Teenagers often don't
know consequences so, in later life, I realized how wrong that was.

Two of the problems, (and I am only mentioning two here), women face daily besides trying to stay
safe in a world that is not woman-friendly, is the objectification of us, our language and behaviour
and the fact that men, and I am generalizing here, think all women need is someone like them in
their lives.

A Questionnaire:

Tell me how often you have been stopped by a woman and been told that your jeans fit you just
right? That she can see your shape in it and she likes what she sees.

Tell me how often you have been told to change your hairstyle because the one you have doesn't
suit you.

Let me know how often a woman has walked up to you and brushed herself up against you or
grabbed your private parts and thought nothing bad about doing that.

Tell me if a total stranger walked up to you to let you know that you need to lose/gain some weight.

Tell me how many times a woman went to you to tell you that your looks don't appeal to her.

How often has a strange woman come up to you to tell you that you're ugly or handsome?

How many times have you allowed a strange woman to grab your hand and hold it and start
caressing your hand with her thumb? ( Lets not picture your favourite celebrity crush in this
instance)

How many times have you been stopped by women and been sworn at because you would not give
her your number when she demands it?

When you let a woman know you're happily married/involved how often has she told you she can
fuck you better?

Has a total stranger ever come up to you in a public space to stare at you and advise you on ways
you can attract men more?

Tell me how often you have been whistled at, touched, grabbed, or cornered by a woman you don't
know?

The above are but a few instances of what women have to go through every day just to get through
the day.

Women are told by men that they need love; read sex, all the time.
Tell me how you would feel if this happened to you on a regular basis? If everything you wear, do or
say, some strange woman butts in and proceeds to tell you how she feels about it and about how
you live your life.

Yes, the world is a harsh and dangerous place but it is soul-destroying when strangers in real life or
on social media form opinions about the way you look, your hairstyle or colour, your clothes, and
what is best for you.
As an example, I have had a complete stranger telling me that he knows I'm not happily married and
he can remedy that. Someone who doesn't know me said this. It must be one of his ways of "picking
up women). And whilst, social media is toxic at the best of times, I have experienced this in real life
too.

Can you stop and think for just a moment and understand that women are not possessions and they
are not there to please you or for you to comment about.

Do you realize the "burden" it places on a woman knowing that not only does she have to deal with
the opinions about her looks and the way she is from her partner and family but now she literally has
to take the entire male species into consideration before venturing out in the morning?

If you're interested in a woman you see, you will get the vibes/chemistry and long drawn out looks
from her. She will let you know she's interested in some way or another. That's a different story
altogether.

It's tiring enough, dear men having to deal with GBV, Covid-19, and violence as a whole, but it's
frustrating and invasive when women have to contend with some random man's opinions of who
they are and what they look like.

If women did to men what men do to women daily, men would be calling the police and authorities
on a daily basis.

Our wings are clipped before we have even learned how to fly.

"When you know better, do better!"

More about Thesna Aston

Understanding Family

By Gaynor Paynter

My brother Jamie was five years older than me, and my sister Sarah 18 months younger than him. I
was the baby, and I was DIFFERENT. Oh, nobody ever said anything, but I always knew it. Jamie was
sporty and friendly and not very studious, he just did ENOUGH to get through school and no more.
He always said his life’s dream was to be a soccer player, he didn’t work very hard but he had the
talent if he tried. Sarah was pretty and clever and worked hard, she was good at maths and things
like that and her career was pretty much laid out for her, she’d go on to do accounting or weather or
something like that. My father went to an office every day, and my mother made the home but then
there was …. ME. I was DIFFERENT. I was DIFFERENT. I was an outsider, I never felt part of them. I
went to the acting and drama classes at school, though I was the only boy there often. I got stuffed
in the lockers and given wedgies by boys who were different to me. My life was made pretty
miserable. But I also got the star parts in the school plays.

Dad came home one day, when I was 12, and something had happened, but I didn’t know what.
They all went into the lounge to talk, and I was again cast to the outside. We never discussed it, but
Jamie stopped talking about sports, and Sarah took an office job after school, working her way up
and gaining her degree many years later. I busied myself with my life and BURIED myself in it really. I
was in school show after school show, community musical, dance productions, recitals. My family
never came to support me and it hurt. I didn’t understand. Why didn’t they care? My father was
often drunk, my mother tearful and my brother and sister with the type of friend who wouldn’t
appreciate a show. I channelled my pain into my acting. I was so lonely. Every part I played benefited
from the pain I was going through. The bullying was ongoing getting worse and worse, and surely
they KNEW and why didn’t they DO anything? And it occurred to me that this FAMILY didn’t
understand anything about FAMILY at all. I was blinded by the sadness, but if I’d noticed the light, I
may have seen, in the shadows, a few willowy figures slipping away.

I went to a fantastic university where I excelled in my bachelors and honours degrees in theatre
studies. There I was in show after show, and the bullying stopped. In fact some of the guys who
bullied me came to see the shows and the standing ovations shut them up. By that time I was on my
own. I was in residence and I never saw my family, holidays were on tour or with friends. I got the
occasional email from my parents and I can’t remember if I replied or not. My career flew. I was
always able to draw on pain. There was enough of it. And I started to draw on life experience –
varsity, alcohol, food, relationships. And the void of where family should be.

Years later, I bumped into my brother in London. I hardly recognised him and we had lost touch
when he went to prison. We were awkward, strangers, but we were near to a café, and sat down to
a coffee together. Small talk: "Sarah got her degree in the end but she made a lot of debt doing it."
The pain of missing him and the rest of the family flooded back and I didn’t have much to say. His
eye was on a billboard on a theatre across the road. A billboard with MY name at the top. A
BROADWAY theatre.

“You fool,” he said. “Do you even know?” I was dumbfounded and stared at him. “What Sarah and I
sacrificed for you? When dad lost his job, there was only enough money for one of us to go to
college. We decided it had to be you.” I was speechless. “Why?” I asked. “Because ... you idiot," he
said, as if struggling to find words to explain the obvious, "even to us who know nothing about
creativity, we knew that you had a special talent. We knew we had to shield you and that you had to
be the one who went on. You were the one who the world would need most.” I was stunned and
then I reached over and held my brother for the first time since we were 12 and 16. I realised he
wasn’t in London by mistake, and all along I had been the one who didn’t understand FAMILY.

Gaynor Paynter is a writer, proofreader, editor and transcriptionist living in Johannesburg, South
Africa, with her husband, sons and dogs. Read more about her here:

More about Gaynor Paynter

Her mournful briny tears - 2020-08-13 07:14 - NzwaniMhene

Photo by Lucxama Sylvain on Pexels.com

By Nzwananai Mhene

In the silence of the long winter night, her sobs and sniffles quickly broke into an unending stream of
mournful briny tears. She wept piteously and her heart-breaking wails, each time the excruciating
pain in her body soared to intolerable levels, left her wounded emotionally as she tried to grasp why
she had to bear the insufferable pain. She thought to herself, “Could this be the beginning of the
end? Could this spell the dawn of her demise?” She was battling an incurable medical condition, an
invisible foe whose unknown origins perplexed the medical experts and which caused her to cry
recurrently every day. The pain was sadly amplified by the wretched wintry weather and there was
no help in sight; none whatsoever. Her loved ones watched her helplessly without a clue how to
offer solace and emancipation from the oppression of an unbeatable illness.
Days turned into months from the day of diagnosis. One could not bear watching her cry each time
her mournful briny tears burst from her red sore eyes. The wailing left her weak and doubtful that
she would live for long. As the days drew near spring, there appeared to be a lessening of pain. Soon
her despair morphed into hope for a better day without an iota of pain and accompanying sorrow.
Spring passed and summer brought with it increased mobility, less pain and a solution from the
medical experts that allowed her to manage her medical condition better. Oh, how she hated
looking into the mirror but each time she did, hope sprung from her core as she noticed her pale
appearance changing. Her complexion began to change, much to her delight, from a dusty pale
brown look to an image that portrayed a glow she had previously thought she would never have
again. The pain became bearable, but it would not go away completely. Nonetheless she was a
grateful soul. The worst was over and her mournful briny tears almost a memory in the not so
distant past.

Photo by Eben Odonkor on Pexels.com

She chose not to let bitterness cloud her fortitude and persona. The fighting spirit in her was nothing
short of admirable. Giving up was certainly not an option and the thought of pursuing her myriad of
dreams was not a pipe dream but an attainable reality. While hope abounded, there were moments
of sadness when she wondered why she had gone through the horrifying period. She remembered
how her mournful briny tears wet her pillow. She wondered at the once piercing pain which she
could not even wish for those who despised her. She began to understand what millions of people in
this world go through in the face of various medical conditions that gnaw at their joy, confidence
and hope, leaving them in a confused state.

In remembrance of her mournful briny tears, she vowed never to let anything steal her joy, no
matter how gruesome. The pain taught her humility as she had to depend on others. The pain taught
her empathy as there are many hurting souls in this world. The pain taught her courage and
resilience as she had no option but to soldier on. The pain taught her to be grateful for all the
wonderful things and people that surrounded her. The pain encouraged her to refresh and comfort
others as she had been comforted. The pain crafted and painted a new picture of the reality of life.
Life is unpredictable. The pain taught her to be appreciative of all good things and to learn from the
bad. The pain also taught her that pain may be tormenting and ferocious but if one chooses so, it can
never take away one’s tenacity to live; we have the power to harbour positivity where the intangible
characteristics that inhabit our hearts and minds are concerned. She would never want anybody to
experience what she went through and would never want to re-live a moment of it but her former
mournful briny tears will forever be etched in her memory as a reminder of some of the greatest
lessons learnt in her life.
Photo by Ogo on Pexels.com

More about Nzwananai Mhene

The Trouble With The Toothpaste - 2020-08-10 08:42 - talk2thesna

By Thesna Aston

My thoughts are jumbled! I am a nervous wreck!

I have an audition and I am nervous. If the audition is great, I can sing on weekends and earn some
money. I replay the song again. I'm singing "Hopelessly devoted to you" by Olivia Newton-John.

I know even at 13 years old that nerves will pinch my throat muscles and I won't be able to hit the
high notes, so I have to relax. My sister looks at me with a dreamy look in her eyes.
"You can do this!" She whispers.

"Let's hope I don't forget the words," I say nervously.

"You won't," she replies confidently, "Now hurry up and get done!"

I start rummaging around looking for my clothes and putting them on. I ironed them last night so
they look good. Im not crazy about the peach colour of my pants and I hope no one can see the
bodysuit is big for me. It belongs to my mom but I don't have a blacktop.
I'm wearing my mom's black boots too. I don't have boots and my mom and I are the same shoe size.
"Ok, how do I look?" I ask my sister apprehensively.
"Like a million dollars," she smiles.
She's so sweet and I look so much older because I am taller but she's only a year younger.
I give her a quick hug.
"Let's get my name out there."

I rush around trying to calm my nerves. My mom is calm as she witnesses me getting myself into a
tizz. Sigh! She's always calm! I don't understand mothers.

I take one last look in the mirror. My face seems ok. Thank heavens no pimple showed up to
embarrass me.
"Move it down slowly," I instruct my sister as she moves the tiny broken mirror we have too fast
down my body. "I can't see!"
"You look fine, let's go please," she complains.

"I need to brush my hair then my teeth so give me 5 minutes and I am done," I reply.

I rush the brush through my hair. I really hope it doesn't rain so my hair stays the way it is.
I run to the bathroom to brush my teeth. As I see my toothbrush in the plastic cup we use as a
toothbrush holder, I don't see the toothpaste.
Panic time! "Mom," I scream from the bathroom, "where's the toothpaste?"
Silence!
"Mom!"
Another pause.
"There is no toothpaste, your brother used the last this morning!" She answers.
"What!" Oh no, this isn't happening! "How do I sing and stand close to people in the band with a
stinking breath?" I cry.
"Use water," she replies calmly.
"Urgh! Mom, water does not freshen your breath!" I cry louder.
"Rinse your mouth with salt water." She answers.

I run to the kitchen to look for the salt and as I open the cupboard I find the empty packet. Seriously!
Could things get any worse?

I am devastated. I don't want to be the girl with the smelly breath. I know we are poor but jeez, we
always have toothpaste even if it's the cheap kind.

My mom doesn't understand that band members stand close together on stage. What if my breath
smells and one of them mentions it or worse, I get a nickname like "smelly breath."
What if they won't let me sing for them simply because my breath smells? All the "what if" scenarios
flash through my head including my singing career going down the tubes because of a lack of
toothpaste.
"My life sucks," I whisper to myself as tears roll down my cheeks.
I feel arms around me gently giving me a squeeze.
"I know what you can do, you can hold your hand in front of your mouth and tell everyone that you
have flu and you don't want to infect them," my sister says.

Yes! What a brilliant idea and a wonderful sister!

"I never thought of that, you are so right," I replied smiling as I hug her.

Let's do this...

More about Thesna Aston

When Mammon leaves - 2020-08-06 06:11 - beulahk

By Beulah Kleinveldt

The greatest battle to overcome is the urge to hide when your hands are empty and spread wide.
Pride creeps around in the dark when trouble hits hard. When money leaves through the back door
pride tiptoes through the front. A practiced seductress that shames us for our lack, embarrassed at
our debt, shaken at our struggles.

Keeping up with the Joneses have become the norm. From Kadette to Cadillac - pretenses raised; all
is well we say. an old cliche. But the pit gets deeper and darker - we hibernate. Marriages fall apart
when the beef no longer comes home. Overdue mortgage, car instalments late, daughter pregnant,
son doing drugs. But the Joneses must never know. Our stylish lives are our fate. Pride smurks,
dressed up like a new bride. Picking at crumbs in empty bread bins. The next selfy should raise the
stakes.

Our romantic portraits published. Viewers mourn their dismal lives when they see our designs.
Unbeknownst to them, your rest has fails when your head hits the pillow. Our stress beyond disguise
but the Joneses must never know.

The foolishness of fantasy is that they wear their masks tighter - with all the pain that goes into
hiding. Their coins cling to the bankers books - bold red print dancing to the rhythms of stickmen.
What is a banker to do with the tight-lipped. Cadillacs cost and such an existence is like a balloon; a
pin's prey, frail and fragile, just like yours but the Joneses must never know.

The greatest battle to overcome is the urge to hide when your hands are empty spread wide. Peanut
butter and bread is every man's tale, every man sees such a day. Fighting a need, that needs anger
management skills. Drilling holes in bread, somersaulting inside dry mouths like trapeze artists.
Argumentative at every turn. Brown dung-like protein begging for a second chance. Peanuts wide-
eyed in anticipation. See life through the pragmatist's eyes. The Joneses are not called The Joneses
for nothing. They'd rather toast stale bread than face the facts. Every man hides something. The
Joneses too. But no matter how hard they try,
More About Beulah Kleinveldt

(C) Jambiya Kai

eddiebhila (2020-08-06 10:13:31)

Very poetic and very real. Beautifully written and very expressive; each one hides their own injuries
from their enemies, lest they take advantage. The Joneses are not our friends, it appears. The
feeling of neighbourliness has been tainted and ruined by the need to always feel and appear better
than...
Lovely poetic piece

Eloise Greeves (2020-08-08 19:16:39)

Hey Eddie. I totally agree with you. The feeling of neighbourliness has been tainted and ruined by
the competitive nature of the Joneses. We are no longer our brother's keeper because it has
become all about me and what I need to make me feel good about me, never mind how it affects
everyone else around me.
Escaped from The Kidnapping Zone! - 2020-08-03 06:44 - Monica Kunzekweguta

By Monica Kunzekweguta

I was not being a rebellious child, growing up in Makoni district, Zimbabwe envisioning a bright
future. My father overlooked the fact that he had already planted a seed to quest for success, to be
the best and to excel. Whenever I brought home my school report, he looked at it meticulously and
we would discuss areas which needed improvement. He usually asked, “What is going on with your
Maths and Geography my girl?” I would give the usual excuses, but he always encouraged me to do
my best. Our relationship was amazing.

Aged 7, I came home with an impressive report, first position. My father was excited. He took an
afternoon off and took me into town, Harare city centre. We went to Kingstone’s, the famous
bookstore and he bought me a Student’s Companion and an English dictionary. From there he got
me fish and chips from the best chip shop at Rezende bus terminus, which had chips and pies to die
for. I was thrilled, I loved these one-to-one moments he spent with me because they were packed
with lessons and wisdom nuggets. At that age I even knew all the functions of an automobile gears
because I was always asking questions and he never got annoyed or got impatient. This paid off,
when one day he stepped out of the car to pick up something and it started to roll downhill. I knew
what to do to stop it. Those were special moments. They served to convey a strong message to me
that education was important and if I did well, I would be rewarded.

Ten years later I completed “O’ level/Grade 10. A serious conflict of interest emerged between the
church father attended and his values. The church did not encourage educating girls beyond primary
school - being able to read and write was enough.

I knew that this stage was crucial, but I wanted to believe that I was the lucky one. I completed
Grade 10 and I was excited to embark on the next leg of my next journey - attending the 11th grade.
At this point, the conflict of interest between the church and him intensified. This was a real test to
someone who gave up his own studies to help raise his siblings after his father passed on. When I
came along some of my uncles were graduates and my auntie was in teacher’s training.

The pressure from the church to pull me out of school deepened. My father had to decide. Girls
were expected to marry young and I was already sixteen. Men from that church who were in their
40s used to turn up at my boarding school asking me for a date even though I was only a teenager! I
used to pretend they were my relatives.

This was emotionally unbearable and most embarrassing. The fear of being kidnapped was real, as it
was a method used for girls who did not cooperate. I was too mortified to tell the school officials or
anyone else for that matter. I did not want anyone to know that I was part of that church. These
visits started when I was 13 years old and lasted for four years. I did not want other students to
know about this as it would have intensified the bullying I experienced at the beginning of each
semester. During the holidays I was forced to shave my hair, and boys used to laugh at me and tease
me. I became withdrawn and self-conscious. Despite all that, I managed to pass and qualify for
Grade 11.

At over 14 years of age, I was already way past my sell-by date for marriage. Just before schools
commenced, I was summoned to the village. I was anxious because everyone was getting ready to
go back to school. I still needed to find a place. I felt the uneasiness in the air when I arrived, I knew
that things were going to be bad but had no idea how bad. After supper we all sat in the lounge. I
think everybody knew that the dreaded topic was going to be discussed. After an awkward moment
of silence my father cleared his throat and said, “Pawaita pakwana (what you have done so far is
enough) You will not proceed with your education….” Upon hearing that, my heart sunk. He carried
on talking but I could not hear what he was saying…I could feel my whole world falling apart. I kept
staring at the little candlelight not sure what to do. The room was poorly lit and looking anywhere
else would have compounded the darkness I was facing.

I was in disbelief. I had passed my General Certification Standard (Grade 10) and I was excited about
going for Lower Sixth (Grade 11) in preparation for university. There were only two weeks left before
the start of the semester. The atmosphere in our lounge was sombre. I finally managed to open my
mouth, “Baba (father), why did we waste all that time discussing my future, my reports and my
studies including going to university? Why did you even bother to take any interest in my studies at
all if you knew it would all be for nothing?” I demanded. He responded in a calm voice, “You see, this
is what they say, these girls will challenge you if you educate them.” I replied, “Aiwa (No) Baba, I am
not challenging you.” As I responded to that, I found it astonishing how my father was even using
this line of argument.

…. To be continued

More about Monica Kunzekweguta

https://www.silentstrengthbook.com

Eloise Greeves (2020-08-08 19:18:16)

Monica I would love to read your book. This excerpt pulls on me to want to know more.
Simon Said - 2020-08-01 16:53 - beulahk

By Beulah Kleinveldt

He loved Carmen.
She said he was the love of her life.
What more could a man want.
She stroked his passions yet not the parts that mattered. He felt more like a dog on a leash. The
faithful sucker whose teeth were removed, and rendered him a passive idiot.

He whimpered as words sliced his ears. It’s called “grooming”. The pub crew laughed when he tried
to tell them. Simon died a thousand deaths as love proved to be nothing more than a "keep you
begging for more" hug. A narcissistic ritual - the damsel in distress monologue.

The emasculation of a man has become a cultural “tête-à-tête” as felines debate the empowerment
of women in the workplace and home. Medieval punishment seemed more direct.
Contemporary society vehemently and rightfully protests the abuse, and violent crime of and against
women but seldom do they stop to listen to men and their call for help.

Simon knew he had to do something but who would listen, who would understand. Dread crawled
around in his stomach, then launched an attack on his very masculinity. He sought comfort in the
Camel vapor that rose strongly from pent up emotion. The fragrance and taste of tobacco soothing
his pain like nothing else.

His fears were justified when senior officer Moby frowned, raised his brows then grinned a lopsided
grin. Man in denial. His jowels swinging like a giant pendulum. Patronising and perfectly fat . “Ah
c’mon sir, you’re here over a few scuffles with the Misses? Man up my friend, women slap men as
easily as they wear perfume and lingerie – even take his money after”, he chortled. “Ah the stories,
the stories. Now”, he whispered almost conspiratoriously, “go have yourself a drink, buy the lady
some roses and she’ll be right as rain in the morning – don’t forget to anoint that eye, black just isn’t
your colour”. Maybe one day, Simon thought, he would choke on those cheeks. Simon felt himself
choke on his diminished will. When does a man give up? Moby dick-head shred the affidavit and
dismissed Simon with a curt nod.
“kill chauvinism, maim the patriarch, lynch and castrate the rapist, chain the pig upside down, and
throw away the key. Hack the hands of the abuser; stitch the lips of the expletive junkie. Set women
free”. Protests escalating in fevered pitch.

Forgotten is the man who returns home to a punch, scratched and bullied; undermined and ridiculed
before his sin. The boy-child whose pants were dropped; beaten. going to school with belt- grazed
testicles.

He got into a talk with his teacher. The face of distorted beauty appeared in Charlies 6-year-old
mind. “Women are the bosses, Miss Ellie”, he shouted. Delight beamed from her heart shaped face.
The boy was well groomed.

Charlie watched his father flinch as sport was changed to the hallmark channel without an eye in his
direction. Carmen willed it so. The boss.
Simon loved her. Father and son were afraid. Best not to say a word. nobody would listen.

Carmen pursed her lips at Simon’s warning. The M63 was under construction. She ignored him.
Everything about him.
“I’m sorry officer, there’s no pulse”, affirmed the paramedic. Carmen moaned at the tiny cut on her
thigh. "Please help me, it hurts". Charlie Charlie. Those were Simon’s last thoughts.
“All good”, said Moby. By himself he mourned, “He was a very tired man”.

The law that endeavours to protect women have completely failed to defend men. Perhaps in doing
so, it has inadvertently created monsters. A species who live to belittle and bastardise even good
men. Post-modern sociopaths.

“Man up my friend, women slap men as easily as they wear perfume and lingerie”.

© Beulah Kleinveldt
AKA Jambiya Kai

More about Beulah Kleinveldt

3. 0 – 07
A Winter's Day in Durban - 2020-07-29 08:02 - QueenCandice

By Candice - Lee Ndevu

Nothing about this day feels normal, apart from the sun rising on time and the alarm going off at
6:30am. It's a normal school day. In half an hour breakfast will be served in the main restaurant. I
wake up my 2 younger siblings and older brother. It's for school I say.

Inez is about 5 and in grade 3. My brother is the eldest, 2 years older to be exact and we are now in
grade 5. Carice is searching for her homework bag. Grade 4 seems to be giving her grey hairs. It's
time for breakfast and like the Brady bunch we make a way down. Warm smiles and hugs welcome
us at the bottom because at this moment in time we are the biggest cash injectors into Southern Sun
Umhlanga. We eat our breakfast and pack lunch from the buffet menu. Mom gives us our allowance
for the day which is always R100, R80, R50 and R30 each child gets according to their arrival on
earth.

We are already in trouble at school because last week Inez took over 50 credit cards with to class.
That was against the rules. Never touch mom's bag, no matter what. Our usual drop top, red M3 is
here. We hop in and off we go. School is a blast. We are still the newest kids. We have all the
attention in the world.

Aftercare goes by so quickly. I keep checking my Mickey mouse watch for the time. My granny got it
for my 9th birth. It saves me at the worst of times because monitoring 3 siblings while you are only
10 is a mission and a half. Mickey mouse says it's now 17:00, its time to go to the gate. The cab
driver will be here soon. I grab all Wardle bags and run out. Mom gets mad if we delay the driver.
More money for her to pay. We wait patiently, 17:48 I call mom from the office. The phone is off. I
know our way home. Well, if you can call a hotel home then so be it. We've been there for 3 months
now. I've Mastered all the turns. I put my baby sister on my back and give my brother the bags. We
arrive at reception after dark. Tired and hungry. We go to the rooms. The wardrobes are empty. I
can't smell Paris YSL at all. My mind tells me she's been gone since morning.

I call the restaurant for dinner. They tell us we can no longer get food. Argh, I never take no for an
answer. I go to the kitchen and demand food. Chef gets us something and promises to bring us
breakfast in the morning. I keep the kids calm. It's 9am. There's a knock, it's Mr Carr with the
headmaster. I expected fees are not paid hence I didn't even get us ready for school. We are told we
can't return and they looking for Brenda. I don't answer that. I open the door and they leave. The
others don't know what's going on. Don't think they care much. The go for a swim. I sneak out and
start speaking Zulu to the security at the gate. He gives me a coin. I call home. I'm happy to hear my
grans voice. I tell her what's happening. She tells me to be at the airport at 5pm the next day. I run
back, wash decent clothes and get us ready. The next morning I get us ready and my chef friend and
the lovely receptionist book us a cab and sneak us out of the hotel. We were held in attempt to get
money out of mom, but I knew she's gone. I'll see her next winter again if I'm lucky. We land in East
London, it's freezing. July has caught up this side. The stares in the streets. The whispers, nothing
bothers me. I'm happy to be home safely.

We can't get space to finish the academic year at our previous school. It's a long daunting 6 months
of being in the house. Playing outside is a no no. We've never been allowed. Some crazy story about
my grandfather. He was half white and half coloured. My grandmother was Xhosa from the Transkei.
During school holidays relatives from both extremes would come to the white house for school
holidays. The coloureds would gang up on the Xhosas and vice versa. Because of all that commotion
Gilbert made an executive decision that no one will speak any other language besides English in his
house. That also meant no Wardle is allowed to play outside or even speak the way others in the
street spoke.

Months go pass and finally our long holiday has come to an end. It's off to school we go. We didn't
even have to try, it's been our school for years.

More about Candice-Lee Ndevu

What I love doing most in the world - 2020-07-28 08:53 - NzwaniMhene

Melancholy stifles creativity. It is the giant nemesis that dogged me for a long time. It is that
relentless archenemy that I am proud to have defeated and will not entertain any longer. It is the
single hindrance that bred procrastination, lack of confidence, an inferiority complex, poor decision-
making and an uncanny preference for solitude. Navigating the avenues of life with the weight of a
melancholic disposition is a terrible way to live. The intensity of my unhappiness turned me into a
reserved character unable to verbally express herself but inwardly harbouring much to relay. Writing
has become an outlet through which I seem to pour out an avalanche of thoughts that have been
confined in my creative mind for a very long time.

Photo by XPS on unsplash.com

By Nzwananai Mhene

The victory I embrace in having overcome my greatest foe has enabled me to do what I love the
most in the world with a spirit of excellence. I have a passion for design that has not been fully
expressed. I am nurturing my design abilities daily. While my primary area of design is architectural
design, I have a multi-disciplinary design focus that allows me to thrive in many facets of design. I
love architecture, interior design, landscape design, set design, fashion design, floral design and
culinary arts. Additionally, I love technology as an enabler and tool to execute design to the best of
my abilities.

Design is a liberating expression of one’s creative flair. The ability to create something from literally
nothing but a set of requirements is fulfilling. Design is a means to solve various problems. Knitting
together and weaving together the solutions to an innumerable number of design challenges brings
me joy. The late Richard Buckminster Fuller, an Architect, was quoted to have said, “When I'm
working on a problem, I never think about beauty. I think only how to solve the problem. But when I
have finished, if the solution is not beautiful, I know it is wrong.” Designs must not only be functional
but aesthetically appealing. I love to be the author, architect and creator of beautiful conceptions
and innovations.

Among my personal values, is the belief that in doing what I love most, I must serve and refresh
others. Design allows me to be selfless in a world that promotes selfishness. While a compliment for
delivering on a design assignment and exceeding expectations is delightful, I have more pleasure in
seeing the smiles of elated individuals due to meeting their design needs beyond what was
anticipated. Applying design philosophies in conceptualising the end products and exploring design
languages in their development are thrilling activities.

Photo by XPS on unsplash.com

“Design thinking” encapsulates what I love doing most in the world. It is an amazing fundamental
approach, not only to my profession, but to the way I approach life. The humdrum of routine does
not appeal to me. Design offers me an opportunity to evade monotony because every design
challenge is different. Utilising cognitive processes to innovate and create is a huge part of what I
frequently and passionately do. I love abstract design, possibly because I am, ironically, not a good
sketch artist. I envision my designs three-dimensionally and utilise the tools at my disposal to bring
my creations to life. Design passion motivates me in a manner that is beyond description. It
encompasses devising strategies, planning, solving problems, decision-making, and creating. I have
an ability to interpret an individual’s requirements and aptly solve their design problem by
processing the information given into the formation of a sustainable solution to the problem.
Sometimes the beauty of the solution is a matter of preference as the cliché states, “beauty lies in
the eyes of the beholder.”

The harmony of colour is important to me in my design approach, whether it be in the preparation,

cooking and presentation of food, putting together an outfit to wear or design of interior spaces. In
doing what I love most I never cease to learn new things and that is an important aspect of
everything I do. Learning, growing and flourishing are key and satisfying. If melancholy was a colour
it would be grey and dreary. As cheerless as grey is it has its place on the colour spectrum and
combined with the right colours it ceases to be lacklustre. Sometimes our antagonist spawns us on
to become the best that we can be if we do not allow defeat. As overwhelming as being down in the
dumps is, when one is downhearted, there is one of two options to take; that is, to either remain
despondent and lose or to encourage oneself, escape pessimism, and win. I have finally escaped the
mental dungeon where I once lay discouraged and I have now found solace in what I love doing the
most in the world.

Photo by Telmo Filho on unsplash.com

More about Nzwananai Mhene

Untitled: A feeling without a name - 2020-07-27 07:43 - Eddiebhila

I hear a loud cry on social media; it is of a man abruptly stripped of his fatherhood, and perhaps his
manhood too. His in-laws have decided to take back their daughter and her kids aged 5 and 7. I saw
the man’s picture with tears in his eyes; he took a picture of himself crying and decided to post it for
everyone to see and perhaps feel his pain, if such a thing exists, another man’s pain! The trouble of
taking out a cell phone to take a selfie while crying?! Damn! I would never think of that. But
anyways, the quality looks good, though the write up is a bit too long for me to read. It’s just a man,
whatever happened must have been his fault.

My cousin had a baby just last month, a beautiful little girl; looks just like her mother. He was so
excited and at the same time anxious of what this new journey might have in store for him. He
collected gifts from his aunts and uncles who were also so excited to have this new bundle of joy in
the family. When he called his girlfriend, the mother of his newborn baby telling her he was on his
way to see the baby for the first time. She broke down in tears sending chills down his spine. Then
she told him “My father does not want you in his house. He says he does not want you near me or
his grandchild. But I have told you that he never could allow me to be with someone from outside
our faith! I don’t know what to do now. My grandma tried speaking to him but he seems adamant.”

Well, that should teach him! Whoever told you it was okay to have a baby out of wedlock!! Don’t tell
me of his pain; what pain? These are self-inflicted injuries caused by the pursuit of physical pleasures
that these young men are always after. He should’ve known it would happen, sneaking around with
another man’s daughter without his permission. Who thinks of the pain the girl’s father felt when he
found out his precious daughter was pregnant by some stranger who does not even respect nor
understand their values? I can imagine how his whole social status may have been threatened; a
faith leader, always preaching to a congregation of respectable men and women with their sons and
daughters about the importance of playing your roles as parents so not to damage your children;
now someone wants to talk paying damages to him for his damaged daughter! They can’t possibly
be thinking of getting married at only 20 years, can they? The man is acting out his anger, it helps
him retain his sense of pride.

I have a friend whom I will call Vusi. Vusi is passionate, kind and loving to his family. Vusi worked for
a big hotel for years and this is where he met the woman whom he always referred to as the love of
his life. Her name was Buhle. Buhle fell pregnant soon after they had been together and Vusi made
arrangements to have his uncles visit Buhle’s family for lobola negotiations. His uncles went to
Buhle’s family carrying what Vusi claimed were all his life’s savings. The negotiations went very well
and the family was happy to have been respected in this way, but still the “cows” were not enough.
They were accepted but only with the condition that Vusi’s family would come back soon to
complete the process of uniting the two families. Vusi was only happy they were accepted and
continued with the celebrations with his family and friends. He was happy his in-laws knew and
accepted him as the father of their daughter’s child. He intended to save up and return to finish
what he started but the costs of raising a baby was not something he had accounted for in his
planning. Plus, before his daughter turned two, Buhle was already pregnant with their son.

Somehow, even without the consent of her family who were still waiting for Vusi’s family to come
back, Buhle had moved in with Vusi and they had been living together as a family; a happy little
family. But when it rains it pours because in January, Vusi received a letter from Buhle’s family
reminding him that some seven years ago he had made a promise to take their child through an
agreed upon traditional process of lobola, a process which was since not completed. As a result, the
family felt disrespected since their daughter has been living with a man as a wife and even bore him
a second child, a son! They gave Vusi 6 months to make things right and come back to finish the
process otherwise it was only fair that their daughter returns home. Covid-19 happened soon after
and Vusi has been home since February waiting to hear from the hotel if he could get ready to go
back to work or keep receiving the UIF pay-out.

In the first week of July, Buhle’s uncles came to Vusi’s house for a visit and when they left, they took
with them everything that gave Vusi’s life value and meaning: His 7-year-old daughter; his 5-year-old
son and the love of his life!

Lelo (2020-08-09 18:33:07)

Oh man. Poor Vusi

The day I fell in love with writing - 2020-07-26 07:23 - Sheridan474

By Sheridan Whitehead

As a child growing up in South Africa in the days before the internet and laptops and mobile phones,
I spent my time playing outside in the sun with my two younger sisters. Unless it was raining. In that
case, I would ensconce myself in my bedroom and read and write and draw. I would happily spend
hours in there, populating an imaginary world with characters that whirled and floated and
developed in my mind, flowed down my arm, through my pen or pencil, and sank into the paper. Not
much has changed in 40-odd years.

If I am honest it goes back further than that. For years my mother kept a drawing I made as a two-
year-old that showed a bride getting married, along with other scratches on the paper representing
the groom, friends, family members, and cars. When I showed it to her, I told her the story of the
bride, the groom, the family and friends, and how they had all come together to end up here, the
culmination of their story on one page. I had never been to a wedding and I think that was what
surprised her most because I had quite clearly captured the characters in all their roles. The point
being that, even before I could write, I was attempting to convey my imaginary world, to share it
with others.

When I was about 10 or 11 we were set a piece of homework by our English teacher; to write a
children’s story. I dutifully did so that afternoon and handed it in the following day. She marked our
homework and returned it to everyone, except me. I shyly put my hand up and told her of this
omission and she nodded and said that she was aware of that. Smiling, she went and sat on her
desk, told the class to pack away their belongings, and that she was going to read us all a story. Once
we were all settled, she picked up my homework and began to read. I was mortified at the attention
this brought to me, but at the same time, I was quietly thrilled that this adult viewed my efforts in
such high regard. When she had finished reading it she looked across the top of her glasses at me
and said, “Young lady, if you do not become an author when you grow up then I shall eat my hat!”

Our worlds are very small when we are children and the adults in our lives loom large with authority.
Their opinions of us are vitally important to us and they play pivotal roles in the formation of our
characters and interests and the paths our lives will eventually take. So when looking back I think I
can safely say that I always enjoyed writing, however, the day that teacher sat on her desk, with rays
of African sunshine streaming through the window behind her, and told me that this story I had
written was worthy of being read out loud to the class, and that she envisaged me being an author in
the future…. Well, that was the day I fell in love with writing.
Covidspiracy Theory - 2020-07-25 01:15 - talk2thesna

By Thesna Aston

Watching the Plandemic documentary with now discredited medical researcher and anti-vaxxer
activist (which she vehemently denies), Judy Mikovits, I felt like a little child shut in a sweet factory,
and being told not to eat the sweets. The temptation to watch, especially at the beginning of what
little the world knew about Covid-19, was too tempting for words.

I had a secret, I knew more about this Covid-19 and it is basically just flu. I am not going to entertain
the 5G "madness" because I never thought that it was responsible for transmitting the virus.

I had flu so often that no one was going to persuade me that it was a life and death situation.
Though many people die of influenza or complications thereof, I have been fortunate not to have
lost a family member or friend to it.

The initial stages of lockdown were like a well deserved holiday, even if it was unpaid. I had my
family close to me and I was happy. We bonded, chatted, and played board games. Oh! The beauty
of togetherness was indescribable. It was the closest to a Utopian lifestyle. Shortly thereafter I
received news of the passing of a dear friend of mine. He was my age and in relatively good health.
He died on the way to the hospital. I was shocked and sad but not enough to convince me that
Covid-19 was and is real. It is only a bad case of the flu after all! I mourned his loss but life carried on
and though I sanitized and kept my social distance, I was quite frankly impatient for this lockdown to
be over.

By the middle of June, suddenly I had 7 people I knew gone in the blink of an eye. My euphoric state
turned to anxiety as one by one I received the news of their passing. I could not attend any funerals
because I have chronic asthma. I stayed home and I stayed safe. Reality sunk in because I had never
had 7 people, I know die one after the other. That's excluding those I have known on social media.

These people were scattered all over the country.

And so, while I am mourning these deaths, I have thrown away my conspiracy theories and have
dealt with the reality of my world. Reality speaks for itself and the pain of losing family members and
friends is remembered every time another theory is bandied about as to what Covid-19 really is.

Covidspiracy Theories will always be around much like the theory about who killed Princess Diana
but that won't bring any comfort to those that have to live without their loved ones.

More about Thesna Aston

Joan Laine (2020-07-26 13:54:17)

It has been very real for me from just before the lockdown when I lost my brother-in-law in France.
A week later, I had to go through three weeks of hell as 13 members of my family in France and the
UK had either contacted it or were waiting for their results, half of which came back negative. Of
those who survived, 4 of them are still not recovered.

There is certainly much more to it than meets the eye, even if it is real.

Joan Laine (2020-07-26 13:55:35)

I am terribly sorry for the loss of your loved ones.

Thesna Aston (2020-08-01 14:18:55)

Hi Joan
Sorry for the late reply, only saw this as I logged on. It's been a busy week.

Yes, the problem is that often with so many sick people you don’t know who to comfort or mourn
for first. I pray that we all have the strength to see this through.

Sorry about your and your families troubles with Covid-19, look after yourself

Ulemu Matipula (2020-08-09 15:55:10)

Covid is real, I was also doubting about it's existence until first week of July when I started feeling
severe headache, chest pain, feeling hot on a normal temperature and inability to breath well each
and every bedtime. I called health authorities after one week of feeling these symptoms but they
didn't help to test me claiming the test kits are few and only to be used to severe sick people so
they just advised me to self-isolate. And another week passed without any changes, and i noticed I
may be covid positive because I have never spent about 2 weeks feeling sick so this was strange to
me. This is week 4 since I started those symptoms but I'm now feeling ok. Stay safe
The Life and Death of Katy Simons - 2020-07-23 21:00 - beulahk

By Beulah Kleinveldt

It was an ear-splitting slap. Her head bounced off the wall and hit the floor with a thud. Droplets of
tears and years of agony raised a silent prayer. Dentures mocked her faith from the glossy wooden
tray centred on the cream white Wayfair kitchen table. Saliva rinsing bits of braised onion and liver
spilling from fleshy lips. The rest of his dinner decorated old Oma Laarman’s crystal vase. In one swift
strike her ribs cracked and broke. Like the family. “You are a putrid cook Katy. Now look what you’ve
made me do”.

Fuming fists slit Katy’s porcelain skin while the semen driven swine huffed and puffed through his
childhood misery. Her silver-grey pants-suit was a designer’s nightmare of bourbon and blood.
Bruised blue -black eyes stared - vacant. A nerve below her stuttering lips twitched at the searing
pain of her ponytail being yanked from a bleeding scalp. On and on the monster heaved and cleaved
- from kitchen to bedroom. Size 12 boots split Katy’s head but she lay dead still throughout the
turbulent night. Her sorrow matching the storm that pelted the bedroom panes. His snores
reverberating through whisky breath. Everything goes bump in the night.

Tomorrow they would gather to bind her wounds as they’d always done. The dentist, The Doctor -
the Vicar. Upstairs 7-year-old Melissa snuggled close to her sister. "Don't cry Mandy”, she
whimpered like a stray puppy, “Maybe God will send us help". If only thatched rooves could speak.

The night closed in. Our father in heaven, thy will be done. As the sun yawned into a new day
Melissa placed a rose over her mother’s grave. 14-year-old Mandy sobbed, “Rest well mommy, I’m
sorry I couldn’t help. We’re so sorry mommy. But I promise, we will not forget”. Beside Katy’s
shattered dreams stood the dentist, the doctor, the Vicar and the sheep - lifting their bleats as
solemn praise to God,
***”Nearer my God to Thee”, Nearer to thee – Though like a wanderer the sun gone down darkness
comes over me - my rest a stone; yet in my dreams I’d be, nearer to Thee”.

Reverend Simons took Katy's life, long before it hit the grave. “Katy Laarman-Simons died from
“Myocardial infarction”. With shame drenched face the doctor coughed into sweaty palms. The sky
turned grey, then as dark as thunder. Katy watched the unfolding from her garden of gold lilies and
lavender. A gatekeeper of the Simons house. Safely observing the lives of Melissa and Mandy.

On Sunday the beloved Vicar lamented, “My daughters and I miss Katy – their beautiful mother and
my wife, who as you know suffered ill health for some years. Our home will never be the same
without her”. Melissa gripped Mandy’s hand, panic rushing into her bruised blue-black eyes;
remembering the stormy night the Vicar took their mother’s life. Their father.
The sheep sang and wept with guilt and the sky roared with vengeance as the Doctor, Dentist and
Vicar sang,
“Nearer my God to Thee”, Nearer to thee – Though like a wanderer the sun gone down darkness
comes over me - my rest a stone; yet in my dreams I’d be, nearer to Thee”.

Oma Laarman arrived from Holland to fetch the girls for their summer vacation. Oh yes, it was better
that way.
God’s wrath encircled the Cabal Parish of Bibury.
Katy watched and whispered, “Farewell my darling girls.
Fare thee well”.

©Jambiya Kai

***Nearer my God to Thee" is taken from a hymn written by Sarah Flower Adams. The life of Katy
Laarman-Simons is a work of fiction inspired by a real documented article. Beulah Kleinveldt writes
as Jambiya Kai.

More about Beulah Kleinveldt

Nzwananai Mhene (2020-07-24 09:08:33)

Wow. This is indeed the work of a seasoned author. You paint stories with your words so vividly
that you engage the reader’s emotions and one can almost see how vicious the villain looks and
how bruised the victim is. You have also communicated an unfortunate but true fact prevailing in
society- some of those people held in high regard who are members of the clergy perpetrate some
of the most heinous crimes and go unpunished and without remorse. I’m looking forward to more
of these stories. I can only imagine and almost feel the pain that the daughters felt at their father’s
cunning pretence-a murderer in church cloth - lying through his teeth...

Sheridan Whitehead (2020-07-26 11:43:11)

I felt that! I actually felt all of the that.... the kicks and slaps and punches, the rain, the fear, the
shame and the sorrow. A word-painting reviving my own ghosts using raw, reds and browns and
blacks to convey the horror for all concerned. Thank you Beulah for sharing this piece.
I have a travel bug - 2020-07-22 21:26 - joanlainecoza

Joan Laine - Ponta Mamoli - Mozambique

By Joan Laine

I have a problem – It’s called a travel bug.

Having the travel bug in times of Covid-19 is a major problem, firstly because there are so many
travel restrictions, secondly because unfortunately, travelling around is what spreads the virus.

Having the travel bug outside of these times, is not really a problem, however it does require a
healthy financial status and the freedom to travel, that a 9 to 5 job and family constraints might
hinder slightly.
The Gift of the Travel Bug

Thankfully, the travel bug is actually not a negative thing at all.

Travel is a wonderful gift to give to your family and your children. So go on and give them the travel
bug, that will get them wanting to hop from city to city and from country to country. It allows all of
us to understand that our world view is not the same as another person’s. The gift of travel enables
us to view the world from an entirely different perspective and opens our minds to alternative
possibilities and realities from those that we have always known. The travel bug gives us the gifts of
curiosity, acceptance and tolerance, which are all wonderful gifts that the world needs today to stop
the toxic division, driven by governments through our media platforms, social and otherwise.

The first time that anyone travels alone, it is a humbling experience because there are protocols that
we learn to abide by that may not actually be written in any manual. One of them for example is
“Don’t make it so obvious that you are a traveler and in foreign territory!” Why? Because there are
“spotters” who seek out the new traveler at all long-distance bus stops, train stations and airports.
You do not want to be that tourist or visitor who gets either pickpocketed or worse, immediately
after debarking yet before you have even got to your hotel. It is one of the real pitfalls of travelling,
and perhaps someone has already written some life “hacks” about this that would be very useful to
first-time travellers. It might be an idea to check on the internet before taking that first trip.

The Origins of The Travel Bug

I don’t know when the actual love of travel became a travel bug for me since I have always travelled
for as long as I can remember.

I grew up in the UK, and my grandmother was the first woman in our family to get her drivers license
and own a car. Every year we would all prepare, for what seemed like days, to go on a daily
excursion to Brighton Beach as a family. Before my grandmother got her car, we would travel there
by coach. On that first trip, there were eight of us piled into her tiny Morris Minor. There were my
grandparents, my twin aunties who like me, were aged 4 my older brother aged 6, my sister aged 2
and my mom.

It was a harrowing trip because we were rowdy and my grandmother kept slamming on the brakes,
and threatening to make us walk every time one of us would make too much noise because it
distracted her from the driving. She would yell, telling us we were going to make her crash. We were
fidgety and uncomfortable because of the tight fit but also because most of us suffered from motion
sickness in the car, and so there were many frequent stops. Until I left the UK at the age of 17, I
believed that Brighton Beach was a day's drive away, when in reality it was 3 hours from where my
grandparents lived in Leamington Spa. One of my twin aunties and I did almost drown there on one
of those trips, which gave me a phobia of water, and which is a story for another day.

I believe my love for travel came from those memories that were created during the drives to and
from the beach, and the memories of preparing the picnic basics, putting the food in the food flasks,
preparing the soft drinks and the sandwiches to take with us, as well as the actual day that we spent
on that pebbly beach.
Discovering Other Worlds

Since the days of my childhood, I have travelled to 5 continents, just under 20 countries and visited
or spent time in more than 90 cities. Half of the places that I have gone to were for work but many
of them were because I simply love to travel and visit new places.

With each new place, there is a new discovery of the smell, the taste and the culture of the people
that gives us a gift of always something unique and different to learn about and to appreciate. When
travelling, I prefer places off the beaten track and so whenever possible, I will connect with the local
people who will take me to the where the natives truly live, not the westernised, sanitised and
idealist tourist traps that many international travellers prefer.

London, South Africa, Paris, Thailand

From my childhood days in the UK, I moved to France where I then lived for twenty years. During the
first five years I took the opportunity to mostly visit neighbouring countries because I didn’t know
that I was going to stay for so long, my intention had been to stay for two years. Subsequently, I
made a point of visiting many of the French towns and villages, which were always so refreshing and
delightful.

I also lived in Switzerland for a short while, which was like living in a fairytale book, on top of the
mountain, with snow-covered landscapes or green valleys, when the snow had melted. We were so
high up that at dusk or dawn, we would look down at a basin, filled with fluffy pink cotton tops as
the clouds covered the valley below us. We were so high up that one day when the mist was so thick
that you could barely see your hand in front of your face, we had our sole visitor drop by for a cup of
coffee. They landed in their helicopter on the parking lot of the Hôtel de la Vue Des Alps, where I
was working at the to time! Switzerland is filled with so many beautiful mountainous scenes, that
you can truly imagine Heidi coming out to greet you at any moment. The people there are neutral,
like the country itself. All is extremely clean and predictable and not a place that I could live in for a
long time, despite its beauty.

The Joys of Travelling

The joy of traveling allows us to get up and close with the things that drive our passion. Still whilst
living in France, I went to visit the Salvador Dalí Museum, which is in Figueres, Spain. It is one of the
most extraordinary and exquisitely weird places I have ever been to, and I had to return again since I
was unable to see everything the first time around. Dalí is one of my favourite artists. Matching the
artist’s work with what I had only previously seen in books, was extraordinary and magical, because
even if a book might provide measurements and scale in writing, standing next to the real thing, is
what actually provides another level of awe. In real life some his works took up entire rooms with
high ceilings. The intricacies and details of DalÍ's surrealist art can only be seen, when standing up
close and personal and right in front of it.

I love travelling so much that when my last born was just 6 weeks old, I said to my partner, come –
let’s go away for two weeks to the beach. I needed the break because I had spent quite some time in
hospital due to a risky pregnancy and needed the ocean to rejuvenate. I booked a place up in
Brittany, packed the bags for the entire family, and with the car filled with mostly baby
paraphernalia, off we went to sit on the north-western beaches in France.

Many of my travels take me to the beaches around the world. Interestingly, I hated sand up until
about 10 years ago, when I suspect the dislike wore off since I do try to go to Mozambique beaches
at least once a year and had accustomed myself to the discomfort of the sand.

The most beautiful beaches I have been to are in Negril, Jamaica; Zanzibar, Tanzania; Phuket,
Thailand; and so many of the beaches in Mozambique including Ponta Mamoli, Ponta Malongane
and Paindane. What I love about all of the beaches, that I enjoy the most, is the lack of people. The
majority of them have either just me alone or no more than 10 other people daily on the beach. The
one in Phuket, was actually not in Phuket itself and had maybe 100 people on it, but the beach
spread for miles. And the one in Negril might have had 20 people on it. They were both still secluded
enough for me to enjoy them.

I love the isolation because when I am not traveling, I am always switched on and plugged into
something. My brain never stops and so I seek mainly places where I can choose to mingle with
others, but where the place that I am staying at is secluded, and preferably has no WIFI or tv.

Local is Lekker

In South Africa there is the saying that Local is Lekker, which means local is very nice. If I am not at
the beach, then I am in the bush or somewhere, where I can walk, watch the birds and watch the
animals. I always have my camera and capture, what captivates me. In South Africa, there is so much
to see, even on our doorstep here in Johannesburg, so travelling doesn’t always mean that I need to
go on a long road trip or a get in a plane to enjoy discovering something new and get to meet new
people.

Arriving in South Africa in 2001, I often travelled to neighbouring countries during the first five years,
as I had when I first moved to France. Again, this was because my intent was to stay only for two
years. 19 years later, I am still here and do almost all of my travelling in South Africa, and still feel
that I have barely began to discover the beauty of this country.

Mozambique is my beach holiday country though because it is close enough to drive to in a day (8
hrs) and its beaches are still as beautiful and pristine as they probably were 200 years ago. If you are
looking for luxury condos and highly intense beach activities, you will not find it in Mozambique,
even if there are a couple extremely luxury places, ideal for honeymooners that can be found there.

The people I meet during my travels, are usually the locals because I engage with the people who
serve me in bars, restaurants or hotels. Again, in Mozambique, I get the best fish or cashew nuts
because I chat to the rare locals who might be walking on the beach in the early morning hours. They
will then bring me something from those mornings catch later in that day and take me to local
markets to buy fruits and nuts.

I have learned so much about people, their history, and their customs by chatting to them where
they stay, because people are actually naturally great storytellers. And people love to talk to those
who will listen. Whether in Thailand, Tanzania or Switzerland, chatting to the local people has given
me insights that we do not get from reading our tourist guides or watching Nat Geo.

Final Destinations

When you have the travel bug there are no final destinations. We travel because we love travelling,
and so the object of our travels is the excuse to get away from the mundane of our homes. It is the
excuse to find a place to dump the woes, stress and toxic accumulation of negative thinking, clogging
the brain, and refill our minds with the beauty and wonder of nature and the stories of other people.

My final destination will be the one that carries my ashes over the Indian Ocean, so that all of my
friends and family that live all over the world may remember me, wherever they are. I am not being
morbid, it has always been my desire since my family and friends are in Jamaica, the US, the UK,
France and South Africa for the moment. Resting in peace for me, would be to know that each one
can visit me when they stare over the ocean.

More about the writer Joan Laine

Eloise Greeves (2020-07-23 11:35:24)

Joan this is such a beautiful piece of writing. I feel like I have been on this journey with you, visiting
every single destination. Thank you.
Change – A Dare To Embrace The New - 2020-07-21 22:01 - Eloise

By Eloise Greeves

"You never change your life until you step out of your comfort zone; change begins at the end of
your comfort zone." Roy T. Bennett

If there is one thing that I hate, then it is change. I love my comfort zones, and when I get pushed
out of the “nest” unexpectedly, it throws me into an absolute panic, sweaty hands and heavy
breathing and everything else that goes with it. I have never had a panic attack, but I think I have
come pretty close to a few. My latest panic episode occurred at the end of 2019 when my boss
handed me a letter advising me of a potential retrenchment that was hanging over our
company. Now being a very perceptive and discerning person by nature, I knew that the business
had not been doing well, and watching unexpected and unexplained changes being made by
management over a period of 6 months, definitely raised my observation skills to a new level. I
knew something was up, but I never imagined that we would end up talking retrenchment.

I loved my job, but truth be told, I was frustrated in a position that had no hope for promotion or
change, and yet this news came as a shock. Living in a comfort zone can do that to you. Remember
the story of the frog and the boiling water? If you put a frog into boiling water, it will immediately
jump out of the pot, but if you put the frog into a pot of cold water and let it gradually start to boil,
the frog will be cooked alive. Well, I was retrenched at the end of February this year, and had no
idea what I was going to do. I decided to take a month off, to let the reality of my situation sink in,
and to take time to search my heart concerning the way forward. My boss had been very generous
towards me, and my severance package was way more than I could ever have hoped for, so I was in
a good place, but I needed to keep busy. So I did the only thing I could do, which was get into prayer
and meditation, as I knew I would find the peace and direction I so desperately needed.
I revisited a scripture that I have read hundreds of times before, but this time it spoke volumes to my
heart and my spirit. Isaiah 43 v 19 “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am
doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness
and streams in the wasteland.” It became very clear that it was time for something new, but
what? As the weeks turned into months, and out of sheer boredom I decided to read some of my
old journals, and low and behold, they were filled with dreams I had hidden so very, very deeply
within my heart over the years. So many things that I had on my bucket list, and unfulfilled and
forgotten goals started stirring within my heart again. My grandmother used to say, “A change is as
good as a holiday”, and were her words ever true. The change from a hurried, busy life definitely
brought refreshing like nothing else could.

I started dreaming again about what could be, and out of all this “mess of losing my job”, came a
dream that had been burning within my heart for many years. It was something I had always desired
to do, but got put on the shelf, like so many other “silly ideas” that I did not think would ever
materialize. And once again, I hid this in my heart while pondering whether it was wise to start
something new in the climate of economy disaster. Was it a good idea to start a new business when
all around me businesses were closing due to the financial strain that Covid 19 had brought? An
innocent chat with a dear friend, that started with a very unsure “I was thinking of starting a virtual
assistant company”, confirmed that there was no better time than now to start this new venture,
and within a matter of days I was able to launch my virtual assistant company and the rest was
history.

I heard a song while writing this story, and I smiled to myself. Isn’t it wonderful how when you focus
your heart and mind on a certain thing, it seems life brings its own confirmations that you are on the
right track. This song confirmed my new story. The chorus says, “When God closes a door look for a
window. Don’t stand at the door there might be a window. When one pathway comes to an end,
it’s time to begin to find a new road, look for a window”. My window came in the form of starting
my own business. I would never have seen that window if I kept looking and longing for the closed
door.

You may ask what my purpose for sharing this story with you is. Simply put, if you are facing a closed
door, whether it be a broken relationship or a dead – end job, it may very well be time for your new
story. You will never know if you are not willing to make the change. Bestselling author and
speaker, Mandy Hale said “Change is painful, but nothing is as painful as staying stuck somewhere
you don’t belong.” I think we need to heed her good advice, and embrace change. Failure to do so
will only cause frustration, and possibilities are all around, beckoning us to dare to start our new
story.

More about Eloise Greeves

Nzwananai Mhene (2020-07-22 17:46:37)

We cannot stop change therefore we must learn to embrace it. Great story and all the best in your
entrepreneurial journey!

Joan Laine (2020-07-23 09:01:46)

You certainly have embraced change and illustrated exactly how to make what appears to be a
seamless transition into your new career destination. Congratulations and thank you for sharing
your journey Eloise with us Eloise.
Eloise Greeves (2020-07-24 08:52:51)

Thank you Joan. Change can be very hard, but I think the key to making the transition smoothly is
having faith that all will be well.
Don't Mess Up The Children - 2020-07-21 08:43 – Eddiebhila

By Eddie Bhila

“Adults are responsible for teaching children how to observe the ways of their ancestors.” This is the
quote spoken at the beginning of a song by American Rapper Lupe Fiasco titled “ Don’t Mess up the
Children” from his most recent album Drogas Wave (2018).

I know the power of stories. I know that our worldview as adults is shaped by the stories we are
exposed to as children. For this reason, I know not to judge harshly the generation of self-loathing
African men and women who grew up in a time when the agenda for the brain-washing of the
African child was at its height. You do know the old people that still think “the white way is the right
way and the African way is the wrong way”; you do know the Uncle Ruckus types who would be
quick to point out that “you know when the white man ran this shop, you could find anything you
wanted that easily. But now it is ran by the blacks and you will be lucky if you got bread in the
morning.” They too, are the products of the stories they were exposed to growing up. Their
expectations of themselves and their race, especially in the roles they could play, is also limited to
the stories they have been exposed to which shaped how they view themselves in relation to the
world.

When I think of the power of stories in this manner, I worry about the types of stories my daughters
are exposed to, and how they could be affecting them in the long run. I have two daughters aged 1
and 8; but I am also raising my older brother’s daughter who is now almost 16 years old. She is a
very smart kid, strong willed, strong personality and a very good chess player I might add, but she
doesn’t like going to the shops alone. She does not like going anywhere alone, even to school which
is a walking distance away.
For many years the stories being told of women, have been those of women as poor victims abuse;
raped as a baby; raped as a toddler; raped in her pre-teens; raped in her teens; raped in her
adulthood; raped as a woman and raped even in her old-age. Not only raped, but in most cases also
raped and murdered. If these are the stories a girl child is exposed to, at what point in her life do you
think she will finally breathe that sigh of relief to signify that she is finally fearless? No point at all.

If we agree that stories shape our worldview and how we view ourselves in relation to the world,
these stories constantly being told about women are more likely to make a girl child see themselves
as a prey; a target constantly hunted and thus fear walking alone. I am reminded of some stories I
have read of the eighteenth century North America and how the stories of lynchings were spread
around for every slave and freed man to hear; these stories were spread in hopes to keep the slaves
afraid and in line. Stories of lynchings inspired fear in the heart of African men and women in
America and effectively delayed the progress of movements against slavery as everyone was kept in
place by the fear of what could befall them if it ever came out that they were even thinking about
questioning the slavery system or anything that favoured their earthly masters.

I wish my daughters could be exposed to stories of Harriet Tubman; a fearless woman who fought
her way out of slavery without relying on a man. A woman of strength and courage who did not
become satisfied by being free alone but went back into the plantation that enslaved her for years;
back into the jaws of injustice, abuse, and torture to free others like her and lead them to the
promised land. The Moses of her generation!

I wish they could be exposed to stories of Winnie Madikizela Mandela; a woman who courageously
stood against a system designed to keep her afraid and chastised. A woman who had the power to
mobilise and bring back to life a movement that was thought silenced by the arrest of its male
leaders! A woman who kept the hope of freedom alive for many through her sheer determination to
finish the battle that her husband could not. A woman who knew her strengths; resisted oppression
and led masses against the apartheid system until the battle was won. The Mother of a Nation!

Just as the narrative on Africans is slowly changing from the brain washing agenda, I wish the
narrative on women could also change and society stops focussing too much on stories of women as
victims. I am not saying crimes should not be reported on the news, but what I am saying is the
stories told about women make an impression in the minds of little girls. It is difficult to live in a
world where you do not know who to trust; it is even worse when you have to fear half of the
inhabitants of the same world because you have been told they are trying to rape you and kill you.

Adults are responsible for teaching children to observe the ways of their ancestor. It is not the ways
of the women ancestors to fearfully shy away from the world, afraid to even speak up about the
injustice of being misrepresented in society. The image of women is under attack and needs better
stories to defend and uplift it.

Stories can cripple; stories can build; stories can strengthen; stories build courage; stories create a
vision. Stories do a whole lot more but we need to be aware of what the stories we tell are doing to
our children. Don’t mess up the Children!

More about the writer Eddie Bhila

Nzwananai Mhene (2020-07-21 10:26:17)

Thank you Eddie for highlighting some of the issues that women and girls face; issues that make
living in South Africa a nightmare for many. While exposure to the stories of rape and abuse should
be on the low the news is simply reflecting the cancer in our society. The abusers should be dealt
with in a manner that makes others fear to abuse or murder and completely refrain from
perpetrating such inhumane crimes. Sadly, many who are caught do not get the punishment worthy
of their crime and go free sometimes to repeat the same scourge. Until the root cause is dealt with
the generation to come will be one that is negatively affected by the after effects of what is
prevailing today.

eddiebhila (2020-07-21 11:17:26)

Thank you for your comment Nzwananai. Interestingly I just listened to a TED talk last night about
how the perpetrators of crimes on the spotlight like mass shootings in America and in SA, the
raping and killing of women, could actually be doing this out of a hunger for fame and notoriety. So
when the media reports on these crimes and mentions their names, the perpetrators actually feel
rewarded as they get the fame they have been seeking while the side effects are our daughters
who have to constantly live in fear.

talk2thesna (2020-07-21 12:35:20)

Love your story Eddie

The Day I Fell In Love With What I Love Doing The Most In The World: Design - 2020-07-20 11:26 –
NzwaniMhene

By Nzwananai Farirai Mhene

An eagle and an elephant cannot be compared on the basis of their ability to fly, likewise it is folly to
compare human beings with differing forms of talent on the basis of a single arbitrary criterion. As
people trek through the formative years of their lives they are often the victims of such
comparisons. Educational systems equip individuals for specific jobs but are not designed with the
flexibility that equips them to deal with the ever-changing and vacillating nature of the conditions
that life presents. As a result, many deem career changes a taboo while those who are multi-skilled
tend to fare better in the wake of unforeseen fluctuations. The entrepreneurial thinking required to
avoid shilly-shallying in such conditions is not borne by many people, as the prevailing COVID-19
pandemic has proved.

It is a stark reality that we are entering an era of forced entrepreneurship due to job losses but a
large number of people are ill-equipped for the journey they are driven to embark on. Upon
observation, societal ills such as crime, are on the increase as some people opt for unsavoury ways
to make ends meet.
Photo by Snapwire on pexels.com

Against this blue backdrop, I am reminded of the day I fell in love with what I love doing the most in
the world and that is to design. I knew then, that my greatest desire was to create something out of
nothing; to be inventive and to learn a technical skill. It dawned on me as a teenager that I would
love to be a designer but I was not instantly sure of my area of focus. Subsequently, I had the life-
changing opportunity of watching an informative documentary on world architecture and without a
technical drawing or design background I clasped at the thought of becoming an Architect. I then
pursued architectural design.

An architectural background exposes one to a multiplicity of design challenges and a wealth of

knowledge. Many a time a design challenge leaves you in the same situation that one who has lost
the only source of remuneration encounters and that is a state whereby one has to deliver a solution
to a problem from scratch sometimes with a few or no ideas, at all, to apply or develop. Design
thinking is therefore a necessity and possibly a means for survival and renewal in the unchartered
circumstances that the global community is facing.
I cherish the day I fell in love with design because the art of design has taught me valuable life skills.
What many consider impediments are often opportunities. Design teaches one to come up with a
guaranteed solution where others find none. Design is almost a leap of faith; the substance of things
unseen. Conceptualising the end from the beginning is a part of the design process in a bid to tailor
the solution to the existing needs. Design encourages brainstorming and conditions the mind to defy
the seemingly impossible. The ability to translate design thinking into a survival skill is paramount.

Uncertainty and fear of the unknown have beleaguered society, leaving many people mentally spent
and emotionally bereft. It is a difficult time that, among many solutions, requires the aptitude to
translate principles of design thinking into tenable and practical results. The day I fell in love with
design ushered me into a realm that necessitated me as a designer to be adept at delivering
sustainable solutions under any set of circumstances. Every deliverable has a time-frame for delivery
and often demands that one work under pressure. Likewise, life’s pressures often demand urgent
attention and much like a design problem require procedural steps to come up with rational
solutions.
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

In reference to the eagle and elephant scenario, it does not naturally follow that anyone can adopt
design thinking as an approach to life’s struggles. Different personalities have differing philosophies
they abide by and varying coping mechanisms. In the face and aftermath of the COVID-19 pandemic
design thinking is an option for creative minds to develop lasting solutions as a social innovation
process that will positively impact society. The day I fell in love with what I love doing most in the
world set the scene for a life-long passion. More often than not, design-thinking requires the input
of all available key stakeholders to achieve the best possible resolution to a complex problem.

Collaboration brings together the talent and vital contributions of many parties, creating buy-in, in
the process. It will be intriguing to note the power of design in bringing beautiful solutions to replace
the ugly situations that are crippling and plaguing society as a result of the ravaging Corona Virus.
New, life-transforming ideas are required now, more than ever, and design-thinking is a plausible
concept for tackling societal issues that have never been experienced before in our lifetime.

More about the writer Nzwananai Farirai Mhene

Eloise Greeves (2020-07-20 12:07:04)

Nzwananai you are truly a creative by heart.. Your passion shines through in this piece of writing
like a voice demanding the attention it deserves. You example of the elephant and the eagle depicts
so clear how different we all are, but when we come together to collaborate, their is nothing we
cannot do. So let’s keep on collaborating, without the fear of any competition, for when we
compete we stifle what could have been.

Nzwananai Mhene (2020-07-20 14:16:51)

Thank you Eloise. There is strength in collaboration and competing with nobody but oneself. I hope
I have clearly enlightened others about the nature and importance of design.

Eggret (2020-07-20 14:12:41)

Beloved Sister Nzwani thank you for showing case the gift God have given you. I like the way you
organise your writing. I think by the time you get to 5 years you will have established a training
program to help the young generation on how to have well polished writting skills as yours. I am
impressed and I cherish you and your perfect skills. Keep it up.

Nzwananai Mhene (2020-07-20 14:19:45)

Thank you Mrs Madondo for the encouraging comment. You have brought up something very
important and that is to pass on the skill to others. I hope I will get to that stage soon so that more
stories are shared and archived for future generations.

Gaynor Paynter (2020-07-20 23:45:31)

A very nice creative read Nzwananai. Love the elephant / eagle example.

Nzwananai Mhene (2020-07-21 20:35:39)

Thank you Gaynor. We are different like the elephant and eagle but our differences and uniqueness
are priceless.

tmaneya@yahoo.co.uk (2020-07-21 20:32:10)

Beautifully crafted. Full of courage and hope with every sentence.

The Day I Fell In Love With Music - 2020-07-16 11:14 - Eloise

By Eloise Greeves
“Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to
everything.” ― Plato

Music has always been a big part of my life. I believe it is something that is very much in my
blood. My father was a musician for most of his life. He started at a very young age playing
percussion in a boy’s brigade. Once he finished school, he joined the South African Defence Force,
where he continued with his passion in the music department. My brother and I often joined him
whenever they hosted a concert, and I loved watching all the little boys gather around him after the
concert, to get his autograph or just to have a little chat with him about drumming. The sad part
was that, no matter how much my brother and I desired to have him teach us play, he never had the
time while he spent his life teaching others his skill. So my love for music had a bitter/sweet taste
that has followed me throughout my life.

Subconsciously, I suppose, that experience led me to search out my own place within the music
world. It was probably an attempt to get his attention and approval. I have been a soloist for most
of my life, and as such I love all genres of music, Gospel music being my greatest influence. I have
even dabbled a little with Rock music, but I soon discovered that was a dead-end street. My first
solo was at the 9 when I sang a very small part in an Easter production. Thereafter followed singing
small parts in school plays, and finally ending up as a soloist in a 45-piece church choir in my latter
years which continued for nearly 30 years.
As a young child, I stuttered, and this caused me to avoid any social events and anyone who I did not
know. I avoided any occasion where I knew I would be expected to stand in front of a crowd to
speak. At school, I would avoid doing any oral tasks. When called upon to do so, I would lie and say
I had not completed my oral homework, just to avoid having to stand in front of my peers to
speak. In Grade 8, my English teacher realised that I had been lying, and this was confirmed when
she searched my school bag and found my completed essay. She then challenged me to find other
ways to do my presentations that did not include speaking. That is when I started using music to tell
my stories, and I fell head over heels in love with music and the way music tells stories. In fact, I
believe music is one of the best storytellers.

Music has the ability to transcend barriers and walls that we have built around our hearts. Walls
that often keep everyone locked out, but also keeps us locked in. The right song, as the right time
can break down those walls one brick at a time, and open the heart to the very thing that caused us
to erect those walls in the first place. Music has the ability to distress, heal, motivate and encourage
us when we are at our lowest. Music also has the ability to relay our stories when we are not able to
verbalise how we really feel. This has been one of my biggest challenges, as the introvert that I
am. I have never been good at speaking whether to one person, to a crowd. It is only in my latter
years that I have become comfortable with speaking, but combining my storytelling with music has
been revolutionary to me.

It has been scientifically proven that music has an effect on our brains. Psychological scientist Daniel
Levitin says that music is more than entertainment: “It is a regulating force for our moods.” Because
of its strong ties to our emotions, we rely on music to wake us up, calm us down, entertain us, and
motivate us”. Many years ago I had two wonderful opportunities to experience, on a very personal
level, the healing powers of music. The first one was in my teens when I had over exerted myself
during a practice with a dance group I was a member of back in the day. We had just finished
practising, and I started to experience cardiac palpitations. This continued for more than an hour,
and it started affecting my ability to breathe freely.

Not knowing how to help me when I refused to go to a doctor, a friend picked up his guitar and
started to play Gospel songs. He had no sooner began playing when I felt something shift in my
body, and within a few minutes my heart calmed down and returned to its normal heart
rate. Needless to say this was a profound, yet eye opening experience. The second experience was
even more profound than the first. This time, I had the opportunity to end a concert with a song
that I had sung more times that I care to remember. But this time was different. As the song
progressed, I noticed a young man seated in the last row, rise to his feet and begin to sob
uncontrollably. I did not think this strange as this had happened quite often, but there was
something different this time.

Anyway, the concert ended and as I was busy collecting all my equipment, so that I could leave, this
stranger made his way down the aisle, and began to tell me his story. The just of it was, he had been
invited to the concert by a friend, and just before I sang my song, he texted his pastor, informing him
of his plan to go home and take his own life. According to him, when I started singing my song, he
knew that he would not follow through on his plan because the story that the song told, spoke so
much hope into his heart, and he realised that he did not really want to end it all. He just need to
hear the right story as the right time, and I was blessed to be the storyteller chosen as the right
time. Since then, he has turned his life around, and is now telling his stories to others with the hope
that their lives are changed through the power of combining stories with music.
A dear friend recently introduced me to a song by Melba Moore called Falling, and listening to this
song once again renewed my belief that “Where words fail, music speaks.” ― Hans Christian
Andersen. The idea that a song, I had never heard before, could so precisely speak what I was
feeling at that particular moment, was mind-blowing, reminding me once again that music has the
ability to tell a story in a way that nothing else can. So I reiterate the words of the Athenian
philosopher, Plato.

“Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to
everything.” ― Plato

Find out more about the writer Eloise Greeves

eddiebhila (2020-07-16 16:13:40)

Eloise, you are spot on. Music has magical influences in us and I feel it everytime I listen to my
favourite artist; not just the stories told but also the rythms in which they are told,; the pacing of
your heart; the clearing of the mind and filling ones moments with serenity and tranquility. I'm now
thinking of Lupe Fiasco track called Traquillo...always fills me with purpose in a not so urgent way.

I worry though that the types of music promoted for our kids today has the same impact. Most of
these songs hardly tell stories, and if they do, it is a raunchy story in some coded languages that kids
figure out later in life that they had been singing about garbage.
But the healing power of stories and music has been felt by everyone in one way or another. We
are driven by stories as they do certainly fill us with hope that better days are coming.

Eloise Greeves (2020-07-16 17:01:04)

Eddie I share your concerns about the children and music they are exposed to. As much as music
has positive effects, it also has very negative effects as well. The sad thing is most people do not
believe that until they see the change in their children. Most of the time, when they do, it is almost
too late because the damage is already done. Thank you for your comment though. It is truly
appreciated.

Nzwananai Mhene (2020-07-20 12:40:02)

Lovely contribution Eloise. These are the kind of stories that encourage one to tell stories. We must
not cease to be silent and unperturbed about the impact those stories can have… Write on and and
play that music on for as long as you can…

Eloise Greeves (2020-07-20 15:58:53)

Thank you so very much Nzwananai.
Getting involved with Write Your Story - 2020-07-15 16:27 - gutsy123

By Gaynor Paynter

When I was asked to take part in an enterprise that involved story writing, I was quite daunted. I'm a
writer, but my writing is not always stories. However, there's nothing more entertaining than a story,
and when you think about it, everything is a story, even if it's factual. So I thought I'd give you the
story of who I am, to start with.

I was born on the 21st of March 1975 in Kensington, South Africa, and, with the exception of a few
years after I was married in 1996, I’ve lived here my whole life.

I went to school at Leicester Road Primary School and Jeppe Girls High where I matriculated in 1992
with a university exemption and half colours for chess (I was the captain of the chess team and was
on the tennis team too).

After studying graphic design for a year, I became discouraged because I felt like nobody believed
that I had the capacity to make a success of this. So I studied something in a 'safe career', which
effectively stifled that creative spirit for a long time. I'm reprising my creativity though.
I always had an entrepreneurial, artistic and creative flair. During school I sold artwork through
advertising in the Top 40 Music Magazine, for R5 a piece! (Lots of drawings of Michael Jackson were
done at the time!) I also worked part time in the local Checkers.

In 1996 I married my first, only, and still current husband, Damian, and my first son, Andrew, came
along in 1998. During this time the development of technology was moving fast. Our first cellphone
was the Nokia 2110 and it was an amazing phone which we shared. The very first time I went on the
internet was in KMI’s showroom, during a lunch break (I surreptitiously snuck in to go on to say I’d
been on!)

Getting older and getting experience

The company ran into some difficulty and I was retrenched in the year 2000. I advertised to do
typing work and did some temp jobs. I then fell pregnant with my second son, Brandon – but one
employer took me on ‘semi permanently which became permanent’ – at a recruitment company,
where I prepared CVs and interviewed candidates. In the working environment, this was where I was
allowed to exercise my writing and creative flair the most. I wrote cover letters and CVs which were
unique and more often than not got the desired result - employment. My CVs were not the run of
the mill standard stuff you get today. They told the story of the person.
The birth of Typewrite

By 2005, the internet had progressed enough for me to ‘birth’ my business Typewrite Transcription
and Typing Services CC. For three months, I worked at the recruitment company during the day, and
on Typewrite by night, all the while with a husband and two little boys (both of whom have
challenging needs).

The 1st of April 2005 was the first ‘official’ day of Typewrite, although it didn’t come to be registered
at CIPRO (now CIPC) until 2009. Although my company is classified under 'business services', it allows
me a modicum of self expression. I do a lot of proofreading, editing, and writing.

Becoming an author
In 2009 I wrote my e -book “Working From Home as a Transcriptionist in South Africa” which is a
great resource for those starting out today – as I found when I started out, there wasn’t much if
anything in the way of support! So this was business writing, but in 2013, I found a need I had to fill,
and my website Gaynor was born. In a nutshell, my celebrities were pseudo family to me while I
navigated a difficult teenagehood, and early adulthood. 80s music, TV, movies, pop culture gave so
much to me, and when I heard that my favourite actor, John Ritter, had expressed the wish to be
remembered as 'someone who tweaked the golden thread','tweak the golden thread' became the
premise of my website. I've interviewed and written about many meaningful people, and (I hope)
given them the platform to express their talent. I've met so many inspiring people through this
journey, but it's always been about telling THEIR stories. This story gives me a small chance to tell my
own.

More about the Writer - Gaynor Paynter

gladysmanokore (2020-07-16 08:45:54)

That's a n I testing journey and perseverance portrayed. Thank you for sharing

Eloise Greeves (2020-07-16 14:52:28)

Gaynor the best way to learn anything new, is to be thrown in the deep end. Once we get past our
fear beautiful the things happen. Thanks for sharing.
eddiebhila (2020-07-16 15:48:16)
The best stories to tell are the lived stories...told from experience as memories. This is already a
beautiful story and could be told in many parts for many to find themselves in.
Interestingly, I find myself reminded of my own mother's journey with the ups and downs of the
employment and finally carving your own path.
Just too beautiful. Can't wait to read more of it as you continue to share Gaynor

Nzwananai Mhene (2020-07-20 14:30:45)

Thank you Gaynor for giving us insight into your experiences. A beautiful read indeed.

TendaiBruce (2020-08-05 18:18:50)

I really enjoyed reading this. I can't wait to see more stories from you. Thank you so much for
sharing.
What stories mean to me - 2020-07-11 09:04 – NzwaniMhene

The power of the written word

Words, words, words! According to Plato’s credo, “those who tell stories rule society.” A strong
ability to communicate always places an individual a step ahead of the multitude. The written word
is to the discerning mind a powerful instrument for inter-connectivity.

For many like me, who were once silenced by life’s atrocities and varied forms of excruciating pain,
the pen is a tool for narrative therapy; a therapeutic form of escapism that allows one to convey
hidden ideas, thoughts, opinions, emotions, memories, histories, observations and chronicles. Those
beautiful yarns or horrific accounts etched in the inner compartments of one’s heart and mind, find
an outlet for a book lover’s reading pleasure or on the contrary make a heart-wrenching read that
reminds one that life is not a smooth ride but a roller coaster ride.

Stories, stories, stories! Stories are powerful in any form but the power of the written word
manifests itself when you become wholly engrossed in a story that engages your emotions, thoughts
and psyche. It is the kind of luring power that causes one to read a book overnight after failing to put
it down to have a good night’s rest. Stories mean liberty to me; the kind of liberty that is akin to the
release of a fizzy liquid after the containing bottle is shaken and opened immediately after the
shaking. There is a sense of confinement that comes with an inability to express oneself either in
speech or in writing.

Storytelling without words

No words, no words, no words! Charlie Chaplin and Mr Bean, played by Rowan Atkinson, come to
mind when I think of the kind of storytelling that is profound and captivating yet without a single
word from the mouth of the storyteller. It is so profound and mind-boggling how one can engage the
attention of an audience without uttering a single word. I am in awe of the ability to tell a
meaningful and sensible story without words. The aforementioned gentlemen have taught that
stories can be told with or without words, however, where words are missing, interpretation among
onlookers may differ. The other common aspect about the storytellers is that they are humorous. I
love comedy therefore storytelling without words coupled with a huge dose of humour is nothing
short of remarkable genius. Laughter is medicine, the kind of medicine that we can never have
overly too much. Stories mean a remedy to me; the kind of remedy that makes one feel motivated
that everything will fall into place at the appointed time and in the meantime, one must smile, laugh
and interconnect with or without words.

I used to believe in fairy-tales

Once upon a time, I was naïve. I believed the best of everything and everyone even in the face of
multiple red flags. The results were disappointment, pain and horrible emotional scars. “Happily
ever after,” was my creed. It is suffice to say I no longer believe in fairy-tales. Sometimes our
disappointments make the greatest of stories and provide a moral that can save another from aches
and pain. The effects of trauma can be devastating and the effects of excruciating pain are
intolerable. However, the effects of both trauma and excruciating pain can crush a soul’s tolerance
levels to smithereens and relegate one’s mind to a thin boundary between numbness and borderline
insanity. Few are given the strength to comprehend that no amount of physical pain and torture can
steal the mind’s ability to endure and remain positive even in the midst of the fiercest atrocities. Few
have that rare conviction that after the raging storm the calm that preceded it will return, bringing
with it a new mindset, a new worldview and a paradigm shift.

Fairy-tales do not exist, “happily ever after”, is a myth and so I choose to embrace each day as it
comes and to make the best of each day I am granted. Looking back, every disappointment is a story
that can be equated to pieces of a puzzle without which the puzzle would not be complete. I
therefore believe everything, bad or good, happens exactly as it was meant to happen for a purpose.

What is your story

Each one of us has a story. We possess stories that mean a myriad of things to each one of us. What
is your story? Is it one of gloom and doom or one of untold joy? I am reminded of Viktor Emil Frankl,
an Austrian neurologist and Holocaust survivor who wrote the book titled “Man's Search for
Meaning: An Introduction to Logotherapy”. Viktor Frankl fundamentally taught that humans are
basically free to take their stance towards internal (psychological) and external (biological and social)
conditions. Human beings have the freedom to choose to respond positively even in the midst of the
most horrendous circumstances. I share the same sentiments. It is easier said than done but very
possible to endure. We are often stronger than we think.

Stories, stories, stories! I have embarked on a journey to share stories. Stories that are vividly
described enough to engage the reader’s emotions, mind and psyche. Join me by telling your own
stories. Stories mean tales of one’s very existence, to me. What is your story?

More about the Writer Nzwananai Mhene

Paynter (2020-07-11 11:40:30)
Very good read - thank you.

nzwanimhene (2020-07-11 12:19:19)

Thank you for the encouraging comment!

Eloise Greeves (2020-07-11 23:16:16)

Beautifully written Nzwananai

nzwanimhene (2020-07-12 04:59:13)

Thank you Eloise!

Sarah (2020-07-16 04:22:26)

Lovely piece of writing there! Thank you

Nzwananai Mhene (2020-07-20 14:27:29)

Thank you Sarah!
How my experience with stories changed my life - 2020-07-08 09:32 – Eloise

“Stories are the secret reservoir of values: change the stories that individuals or nations live by
and tell themselves, and you change the individuals and nations”. Ben Okri

Everyone has a story, and how we choose to tell that story plays a role in how we approach to life,
other people and even ourselves. Our stories contain an endless amount of information, some of
which is insignificant and random, while the rest is filled with meaningful experiences that are
intertwined with who we are. In fact, those experiences make us who we are. Stories are powerful
because we do not just tell stories; we inhabit them. We live them. Many a story told, has its
conception in the reality of the writer, and if told powerfully enough, they have the ability to ignite
passion, inspiration, motivation and imagination within us, and therefore they change us at our very
core. And many times, we do not understand the changes taking place within us because we do not
realise how our story is constantly revolving.

We have each had our own experiences with stories. Mine is no different to anyone else’s, and yet it
is different in a sense of who I have become as a result of my story. Many of our stories are filled
with both negative and positive aspects, and who we are today as adults, is determined by whether
we lean more towards the negative or the positive poles from a young age. The direction we leaned
towards as a child, is the path we will continue to follow, unless something drastic comes along and
alters our direction. That is my experience, and it is amazing how a simple story, whether true or
not, can bring about a change to the lenses through which we and view life, and that change of lens
does not only change our perspective, but inevitably changes the person we are.
As a girl reared in the Church all her life, I grew up with very fixed beliefs, and I lived my life
according to those beliefs. Things were either black or white. Good or bad. There was no middle
ground. You were either a good person or a bad person, and I treated you accordingly. If you were
a good person, I welcomed you into my life and my heart, but if you were perceived as a bad person,
then you were already condemned to hell. Religion has a way of hardening your heart to our
humanity. It speaks of love and forgiveness, but there is often no follow through as far as putting
action to those words.

Over the last few years, there has been a distinct increase in the rape and murder of young children
in South Africa, and society was on the war path because government was not handling this issues
quick enough. There was a real threat from communities to take the law in our own hands and
punish the perpetrators. Our communities were angry and wanted justice. I felt the same anger,
and joined the marches, that were meant to force government to move on behalf of the
people. During this time I received a copy of The Shack by William Paul Young, and after reading this
story, I sensed a distinct yet radical change in my outlook of life and the people I connected with on
a daily basis.

The Shack is a story about a young boy, Mackenzie, who ran away from home after years of living
with a religious but abusive father. He had endured physical abuse from a man who was a
clergyman, but one who was so wounded by his own father, that his only escape was found in
becoming a drunkard. Mackenzie was determined to stop the abuse and decided to help his father
drink himself to death by adding rat poison to every bottle in the house. Years later, when
Mackenzie married and had his own children, an event struck his family resulting in what the author
calls the Great Sadness taking over his life. His youngest daughter was murdered. This set
Mackenzie on a journey of imaginable pain and discovery, as he attempted to make sense, and
hopeful peace with the event and the supposed loving God who allowed this to happen. I say
supposed loving God, because Mackenzie has heard that God is loving, but he does not believe it.

My first instinct was to condemn Mackenzie, his drunkard father, his mother, and even
God. Mackenzie for the murderer that he was, his father for the monster that he was, his mother
for allowing the abuse to continue for so many years, and then finally God for not preventing this
entire tragedy. As sad as this story is, it has brought some very powerful yet positive changes in the
way I view life and the Church. Most of the sermons preached in the church are of judgement, but
The Shack has challenged me to look a little deeper at what makes people do the things they do, and
then also to look at God who often does not intervene as we expect Him to. It’s made me realise
that the actions of people are often determined by their experiences. No one wakes up one
morning and decide to go out and murder children, or abuse and rape women, or do any of the
other evils that have been on the increase today, so obviously something else is causing this. This
one little story made me realise that we are often very quick to judge what we do not often
understand.

So how has this story changed me you may ask. Well, for one, I am a little bit more tolerant of
others. I am learning to not judge so quickly because there is more to everyone than the eye may
see. The people we connect or interact with on a daily basis cannot not be condemned as evil or bad
based on their actions. I said earlier that stories have the ability to ignite passion, inspiration,
motivation and imagination. Has The Shack ignited passion within me? Definitely. Instead of
judging, I have become passionate about finding out why people act the way they do. Needless to
say, this requires a change of heart and can be very time consuming, but passion is fuelled by the
hope that once we understand the why, we can change the story of every person I connect with.

Has this story inspired me? Yes it has. I am inspired to become part of the solution. I am inspired to
help bring a change by recognising the cries of society before these atrocities take place. And I am
not naïve enough to think that I can stop it all, but I can help to change the story of every life that
touch. How have I been motivated? I am motivated to move. Instead of walking through life as an
observer, I am determined to actively become part of the change. Taking the place of the one
judging everything and everyone does not create a safe place where individuals can open their
hearts and deal with the problem at hand. So instead of judging, I am motivated to create that a
safe place for people to just be who they are, and hopefully change the story.

I opened this topic with a quote by Ben Okri, and I will close it with the same quote. I agree with this
quote completely, but I would like to add something to it. Stories have the potential to not only
change individuals, but to impact them to become better men and women. Thus making the world a
better place that we all dream of living in.

“Stories are the secret reservoir of values: change the stories that individuals or nations live by
and tell themselves, and you change the individuals and nations”. Ben Okri

More about the author Eloise Greeves

eddiebhila (2020-07-08 13:21:58)

This is such a beautiful piece Eloise. I have always held that communies are a manifestation of the
types of families found within. The individuals found every society are the products of the parenting
and education. We cannot always blame children for what they become especially if we never
offered them the opportunities to be better beings.
I have not read The Shack but love the way you have presented it here and appreciate the powerful
impact it had on you.
Stories are that powerful. Thank you again Eloise for such an insightful piece of writing

Eloise Greeves (2020-07-09 10:23:32)

Thank you for your kind words Eddie. Yes stories are powerful.

Nzwananai Mhene (2020-07-08 15:21:03)

Eloise that is a moving story that I resonate with. We likely do not share the same beliefs but I agree
that religion has a way of making people one dimensional and instead of walking the talk most
religious enthusiasts exhibit a character that contradicts their core belief system. I was rigid in my
formative years and also saw everything as either good or bad. My worldview has changed and
although I do not embrace every kind of wind of beliefs that blows my way, I do not concern myself
with the moral categories people fall into.

Eloise Greeves (2020-07-09 10:29:46)

Thank you Nzwananai. I appreciate your comment. Worldview is a whole new subject, but yes
placing people in moral categories is often our biggest problem. Instead of placing people in moral
categories, we should embrace the goodness in each other because there is so much good in all of
us.

Tsitsi (2020-07-09 09:14:50)

Beautiful. Its so true. I have always been of the belief that its important to write and record because
thats your story, its authentic. Someone may write about the exact same experience but from a
totally different view. Neither is right or wrong, its never that black or white but its what you
experienced. It helps to bring understanding and a change of perspective. I worked in a bookshop
years ago and "The Shack" was a very popular book, funny I never read it though but what you have
shared has made me want to read it. Like you I had a very religious upbringing but as I went through
life I begun to question many things. I still believe in God, very much indeed but I believe through
various experiences I have developed compassion. Trying to understand situations and not judge.
Its a real journey indeed but reading helps to bring understanding indeed.

Eloise Greeves (2020-07-09 10:39:43)

Thank you for your generous and kind comments. Tsitsi I totally agree with you. Our religious
upbringing has both negative and positive aspects, but it is important to ask questions as opposed
to just accepting everything we are taught as law. Asking questions just mean that are seeking
more insight.

Ogunsiku Babatunde (2020-07-10 01:21:07)

Wow...this is such an important experience that helps to change individual lives indeed, as well as
help one to understand the fact that there is always two sides to a matter.

Well documented Eloise.

Eloise Greeves (2020-07-11 23:12:26)

Thank you Ogunsiku for your comment. We will all do well to remember that there are two sides to
every story and that our opinion dare not become the law by which everything is measured or
judged.

Joan Laine (2020-07-26 13:08:31)

Eloise thank you for sharing. The Shack is definitely one of those books that creates a shift in who
we are as human beings, and how we experience forgiveness and tolerance. The role and impact of
religion on society for causing great harm, through its judgement and righteous beliefs at the
exclusion of others, is one of the main reasons why I am a spiritual but not a religious person. Your
own growth journey may have also given you some insights as to why this might be so.
Why stories are so powerful - 2020-07-07 15:23 – Eddiebhila

Think of the story of Adam and Eve. Think of how a certain single event in history or perhaps even
outside of history has impacted how we look at each other as men and women. Think of how our
cultures and social roles as men and women are formed around this very story. That is how powerful
stories are.

The story of Adam and Eve is set in the garden of Eden where a Man, Adam was created first; the
creator then realised that Adam was lonely and decided to create a companion for him to help cure
him of this boredom he was suffering from. The companion, a woman now named Eve was created
using one of Adam’s ribs.

This part of the story alone has dictated what social roles are fit for which gender in our societies for
millennia. Since Adam was first, then he has superiority over Eve; because Eve was created using
Adam’s rib, then she owes her existence to Adam and therefore her meaning in life is centred
around the service of Adam.

This demonstrates the power of owning the narrative. It is clear that the story of Adam and Eve is
not the story of Eve; it is Adam’s story. Otherwise it would be known as the story of Eve and Adam,
which I promise would sound very different. Eve’s story would remind us of how men are born of
women and not the other way round.

This is one powerful impact that stories have; they can affect how we view ourselves and how we
view others. Great victories and achievements can be down-played and made to seem like
insignificant occurrences when told by one other than the victors and achievers themselves. It is
important to own your narrative.

This, however is not the only role that stories play in our lives. Stories also serve as guides to help us
navigate safely through life; we constantly have to make decisions that affect not only ourselves but
those we care about as well. We have a lot of emotions to consider with every decision made and
yet we could not have enough life experiences to know the best ways to respond in every situation
we find ourselves in. stories offer us an insight into the feelings and emotions of others in various
situations. Stories make us intelligent, both intellectually and emotionally; they give us the
confidence to navigate around many emotional and intellectual situations without causing
unwanted harm.

We rely on stories to remind us of how our children feel about us at certain points in their lives when
they start to feel grown, and stories told from their perspectives remind us to tread carefully and
give them the space they need. We rely on stories to guide us on the best ways to respond as men
especially on issues involving our women; especially with the fear and terror brought about by the
scourge coded Gender Based Violence or plainly put, violent crimes perpetuated by men against
women in society. We rely on stories of this nature told by women to help those of us who were not
raised right to hear the voices of the injured and murdered; we rely on their stories to help us
sympathise and decide to act decisively against this social ill. Because stories have the power to
move!

But stories also serve a cathartic role in our lives. They do not have to solve our problems but they
merely need to remind us that we are not the only ones going through this. Like stories of
unrequited love that remind us that the puzzle that is called love is still yet to be solved. The power
of such stories lie in their cleansing nature; they serve to allow us to breathe out the bad air and
purify ourselves from the pain of being unwanted and unloved.

The writing of such stories is cathartic in itself and equally so is the reading of it and relating to the
experience shared. Our lives are stories; stories for others to write and others to read; stories to be
told and heard. Your story has the potential to remind another of who they are; it has the potential
to serve another like you by reminding them of their worth and their role in society. Your story can
shape the future by offering an insight into an emotion, a feeling or an experience only you can
articulate. So many experiences already go unseen and untold and that becomes a loss of a valuable
lesson to a great many who will come after you.

Write your story; make an impact #WriteUrStory

More about the Writer Eddie Bhila

Eloise Greeves (2020-07-07 15:36:20)

What an awesome piece of writing Eddie. It definitely adds a new perspective to the Adam and Eve
story.

Nzwananai Mhene (2020-07-09 14:21:29)

It is always a pleasure to read another’s perspective and ponder about the depth and meaning of
each sentence. I am of the belief that all scripture is about Jesus Christ and in essence the Bible is
His biography which cannot be personalised or used to derive motivational speeches but that’s a
sermon for another day. Thank you for sharing what stories represent to you and mankind.
Welcome to Write Your Story - 2020-05-27 08:46 - TendaiBruce

Welcome to Write Your Story. The idea of Write Your story first came around 2 years ago. We
started a Facebook group by this name with the idea of bringing together people who want to write
their stories. A few people joined but the idea fell flat and the idea was abandoned but the group
was not deleted.

Fast forward a few years later, technology has improved a great deal and it is now easier to write our
stories. There are so many tools out there now and Write Your Story is now back. We have various
platforms to engage, to have our conversations like Telegram.

Write Your Story is run by a company called Stories4You. We are small group of passionate
storytellers or people who just want to write our stories for ourselves and the general public. We
coach and mentor people to get the discipline of writing stories. Listening to stories should be fun
and enjoyable and so should telling them.

So many people would love to write their stories but it just seems too difficult to sit down and write.
We make it easier than that. We show you how easy it is to get going. We work from the ground up,
assuming zero knowledge of writing stories. We encourage our members to keep journals. Journals
help us to stay in the flow of writing. We believe that Writers write. If you want to write your story,
you have to get started somewhere. You simply have to write.
nzwanimhene (2020-07-10 07:14:48)

Write Your Story is slowly becoming a writer’s retreat; a whole new platform for keen writers like
myself to express themselves. I love to read and write stories. Thank you for taking the plunge and
starting this company that brings together brilliant and talented minds with diverse backgrounds.
Who knows what the future holds ?

TendaiBruce (2020-08-13 13:02:41)

Thank you very much for sharing your thoughts. We are really looking forward to the journey with
storytellers. Who knows what the future holds indeed!