Latest Stories...

"I can only tell you things that happened as I saw them, and what the rest was about only Africa knows." – Oom Schalk Lourens

A big fish in a small pond

My dad took me to the principal’s office, which smelled of leather and wood, and introduced me to Mr Frank Braun; a man of huge physical stature whose mere presence demanded respect. It turned out they were acquainted from when dad had been a South African boxing champion and Frank Braun had been head of the South African Amateur Boxing Association, as well as president of the South African National Olympic Committee.

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Nelson Mandela Book

Political xennial

What would Nelson Mandela say about South Africa today? I want to know. And I want to know why I should love him, as the world and my country say I should. I want something more than logic; I want to feel the pain of oppression for those in my country who have been oppressed, without the baggage of post-’95 government directed rage.

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Woman wielding Asagai

The tour guide versus the history teacher (war at The Tower!)

So Miss Priss proceeds to regale about Buckingham Palace and patronises the kids with babyish questions, like “Do you know who lives here?” Sick of being treated like morons from darkest Africa, the Saheti kids decide to take the guide for a ride: “Yes! This is BECKingham Palace and David Beckham lives here”. And of course everyone finds this quite funny except for the horrified Miss Priss…

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William Kentridge South African artist

A lament

Fireside stories. Warm, fuzzy—the kind of tale you want to use as a nice, comfy pillow when you drift into dreamland under a magical star infused sky. The reality is, though, that when talking about South Africa, about home, it’s not all warm and fuzzy—is it?

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Flat-View

Moving day

Thirteen years ago, we arrived in London with a suitcase each and have there since morphed into a family of seven with stuff to match. It’s LOL funny, when you don’t have to pack and carry it.

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Malva Pudding

Malva Pudding

There it was. Delicious, spongy, oozy, drippy, squidgy Malva Pudding. And then it was gone. Obliterated. Not by an army of South Africans ‘after the braai’ but by one wily 20-year-old.

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Bronze statue in Marseilles

The immigrant’s void

Often, I have to fight the feeling that I am passing on to my children a vague silhouette, an inkling, a ghost, of something that shaped me, that is important to me, that lives in me but is not really real, anymore. And yet I need it to be real. I need to remember…

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