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When Classmates Become Famous

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You don’t remember me?   It sounds like an accusation. We tend to smile when we see the anger on the face that wants to be remembered. The smile is also for ourselves, that we look good, we’re healthy, we look like we’re doing something valuable for humanity. That’s why accusers want us to remember them. We don’t remember people in wheelchairs because we quickly look away. You don’t remember me? We feel guilty in a way, so we do some apologetic probing: the person’s name, place of birth or schooling. Maybe we were in the same class with their brothers or sisters. Nothing. You have never seen this person before. It turns out you attended the same university. She was a freshman and you were one of the seniors giving new students group tours. How then are you supposed to remember her, when you never knew her, as in really know? Remembering is good but it is not reciprocal. Remember me as much as you want, but I don’t have to. Example. I saw one woman in Rosebank in Johannesburg. Her name

Bankrupt or Broke Family?

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Broke are we? Update your C.V. Bankrupt or broke? Same-o.  Same-o. There will always be rich and poor because life is about opposites. There is the sun and there is the moon and these two circular objects will never meet and do lunch at the Claridges Hotel in Mayfair London, period.  Robert T. Kiyosaki even called his book Rich Dad Poor Dad.  I had a copy. I wonder who nicked it. The rich are lucky. The government has their back. I am a billionaire, so I’ll just set up a foundation to help families with many kids who sleep together in the same bed, instead of sleeping with ten teddy bears like my only child. I don’t have to tell these poor folks that my foundation is a means to hide some money from the taxman. I don’t mind what the rich do with their money, but I object to name calling.  Society calls me broke, if I’m short of cash, but rich people are called bankrupt.  Governments love bankrupt people so much, they have all kinds of bankruptcy laws, which make it possible for them to

Soil Color

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It’s something you get used to, subconsciously. We are born in a particular soil color. Someone who lives in the Equator is used to black soil, nurtured by ever present rain. It was bad news in southern Africa, especially if we had washing on the clothesline. They turned yellow when it was too dusty. That color is also the color of emaciated corn during the drought, the color of grass in winter and the color of species that live there. Lions. They are golden. That camouflage is their shopping basket. That is how they catch unsuspecting prey. You probably don’t know the color of your soil if you were born on concrete, grew up on concrete and barely surviving on concrete. That survival is manageable because there is no camouflage. You try to beat a red light, you end up in hospital or kill pedestrians that had a right of way. No lion in the grass there. Not only the road, but life in general. Granted, there are mountains we cannot climb because of historical barriers, government policy,

Shoplifting Suspects

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The drugstore loses some money if the security guard sits on my tail as soon as I enter the premises. How? It gives that nice old lady some minutes to shove shampoo and nail polish inside her SAVE THE CHILDREN shopping bag. Yes. The problem is right there. No. We won’t define what a ‘nice old lady’ is today, but drugstores and other businesses must tell security companies that everybody is a potential thief, a shoplifter, not just people who look like me. The thief might be that lady; the guy with diamond studs in his ear; the guy in a wheelchair; a mother pushing a stroller or a man in a King Charles 111 business suit and a bowler hat. Cameras are everywhere, but that doesn’t deter shoplifting. I don’t steal because things on those shelves don’t belong to me. Besides, I’m scared of going to jail like Donald Trump. Yes, I’m part of my beautiful people, but I enter stores as an individual, not as a representative of my race. Same with you dear reader. It  doesn’t mean that all your peop

Dish For Family To Avoid Food Waste

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A big mango is a waste for a small kid. Cut it into 4 and half the croissant,  instead of taking two bites and throw it away. This one is served with plain yoghurt. Garbage collectors don’t write books or post videos for obvious reasons. What they see is not pretty, and this is not only slices of pizza. Food waste is associated with year-end holidays, parties, family gatherings, conference food and other large scale events, but we also waste a lot of food at home because the choice is wide. There is no choice in times of war and history books are full of rationing stories, where families ate what was available. There’s more affluence now hence, the wide choice of food at our disposal. Speaking of disposal, self service is one of the reasons why we throw left-overs in the garbage. We absentmindedly put on our plates more than we can eat. Some families don’t have self service. Someone, usually the mother, dishes out the food, with kids getting smaller portions, or quantity they can finis

Cynical Voters

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“It is an American tradition to attribute the problem with our politics to the quality of our politicians. At times this is expressed in very specific terms: The president is a moron, or Congressman So-and-So is a bum. Sometimes a broader indictment is issued, as in “They’re all in the pockets of the special interests.” Most voters conclude that everyone in Washington is “just playing politics,” meaning that votes or positions are taken contrary to conscience, that they are based on campaign contributions or the polls or loyalty to party rather than on trying to do what is right. Often, the fiercest criticism is reserved for the politician from one’s own rank, the Democrat who “doesn’t stand for anything” or the “Republican in Name Only.” All of which leads to the conclusion that if we want anything to change in Washington, we’ll need to throw the rascals out. And yet year after year we keep the rascals right where they are, with the re-election rate for House members hovering at aroun

America in Donald Trump's Shadow

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Donald Trump cannot demolish America with a wrecking ball  and still hope to see his shadow. Photo Credit: online pic. I miss my childhood. Be specific, it has more than five stages. Fine, before I turned 14. I especially miss my shadow. I loved playing with it. It fascinated me. It was not the same all the time. Sometimes it would be elongated like a giraffe. Other time, it was normal. I tried running away from it, but it stuck to me like glue, making me the happiest girl in the world. Funny thing though, it did not laugh when I laughed or cried when I was sad. My shadow was every where, which made playing jump-rope ( ingqathu in Zulu ) dangerous. On the left and right side, two girls would hold the rope we braided from wet grass. When it was my turn, I would jump in and check my shadow at the same time. I would trip and leave the game. I grew up and out-grew my shadow because I realized it was an integral part of me, not an extra somebody. I don’t know if Donald Trump realizes that.