Finally it begins.

The great storm.
Having made its threats the whole day through.

At midday it threw up its first thunderous warnings.
On one side of the house, bright summer sky, and on the other, deep dark clouds.
We pray that it is moving away.

It fooled us for a whole seven hours, with bright blue skys.
Beautiful blue.

Visiting my girls at six, the thunder wells up inside me.

Both are uncomfortable, neither cared for the way a child deserves to be.
One vomits with the strength of coughing.
Splashes hit my trousers and in that motherly way, I just don’t care.
My only concern is for a cloth for her.
The other weeps as I leave, having called my name out all day.
I cannot bare it.
Another child’s older sister can see my pain.
'Go'. 'I’ll watch her'.

Outside the colours overwhelm.
There are textures of silk, lace, satin in the sky.
Billowing clouds, folding and folding into
hadeda greys,
flamingo pinks,
sherbet oranges,
baby blues.

Then the great divide happens again.

This time, intense, bright whites and yellows through the gap in the peninsula.
Egytian geese fly against the blinding backdrop, as if revelling in something holy.

The other side, the side of the townships, inpenetrable grey-black.

There I stand in the middle, not knowing which way to look.
Drawn to the heavenly light and yet sucked in by the darkness.

My heart screams with rage and foreboding.
All I can think is of my girls, my poor, wonderful girls.
Lying alone, not tucked in, not watched. No one seeing their beauty.

It starts down low.
That kind of thunder you only hear when you are listening for it.
Flashes of light across the sky.

Then tears. At last.

The sky cries my tears for me.

I am sick of crying, tired of helplessness.

The sky tells me of,
reminds me of,
joins me in my rage.
Tells me of,
reminds me of
the outrageousness of a child left unloved.

I sit alone in my room, lights off, watching the rain fall down the windows, watching the curtains blow in.
Not knowing any more what to do with this split-in-two heart.

The air smells so sweet.

Two things...

The first in my own words, the second best summed up by another...

a) There is one, and only one reason why an active 24-year-old woman's body should ache like this. That reason should NOT be gardening.

b) Economics

We say:
When the economy grows, we will all grow.
The truth?
F*ck the poor!

We say:
We are building the economy, providing equal opportunities for all.
The truth?
F*ck the poor!

We say:
Alone I worked hard; others too must struggle hard.
The truth?
F*ck the poor!

We say:
Inhuman suffering will, with patience, be healed.
The truth?
F*ck the poor!

Tandisa Nkonyeni (my love)

more on flickr today

Saddam? South Africa?!

Ever wondered how South Africa's experience of transition might be relevant to the Saddam verdict?! Well, luckily for you, BBC Radio Leicester had exactly the same question. Here's the interview. Its a WAV file, hope that works for you.

I want to live where the mountain watches. I want to live where hadedas soar. I want to live where guinea fowl roam. I want to live where people sing from their bellies. I want to live where the laughter is riotous. I want to wait with baited breath for the change of season. I want to see the saplings I have planted become humongous blossoming trees. I want to live where I can talk to my neighbours over the fence. I want to live where I am known. I want to live where zebras eat from meadows of white flowers beside the freeway. I want to live where a skirt is not considered a skirt without lines and lines of bias binding around the edge. I want to live where alternate realities are imaginable. I want to live where the reality of human suffering is in front of me, not on a TV program or in an academic paper. I want to live where the soil is sandy. I want to live where insanity is a sane response to my surroundings. I want to live where fruit is sold at the side of the road. I want to live where beads abound. I want to live where voices click and roll. I want to live where shacks are painted in a thousand varieties of turquoise. I want to live where the impossible seams possible. I want to live here.

Here's the thing...

At about midday I have all sorts of fascinating things to say. I sit on a bus or a minibus, or on my lunch break, composing beautiful pieces about the community I work in on a wednesday, or the astounding gracefulness of the woman in the red dress at the train station. Its just that, by the time I get home at 7pm, then cook, then do four hours work, I barely have the energy to undress before I get into bed. And all those newly composed verses and sharp, clear emotions become kind of messy and blurred and hazy, as I fall into a semi-coma listening to the Archers.