Have You Ever

  Years ago, as a young wife, my cooking skills were... well, let’s just say they were a work in progress. I mean, when your husband announces at your wedding reception that guests shouldn't take too much food because “my wife can’t cook,” you know you’re in for an interesting culinary journey. We settled into our new home in Kathu. Where? A tiny mining town in the Northern Cape—far from everything. Back then, the only grocery store was run by the mine, and apart from a petrol station, there wasn’t much else. Schools, churches, homes, sure—but no shops. In Kathu, you were either employed by Iscor or SA Railways. We were lucky enough to have a lovely house, albeit sparsely furnished, and soon took in a boarder—a young Afrikaans lad named Koos. He came from a fishing village on the West Coast and had grown up in a large family with a mother who could really cook. One evening, reminiscing about home, Koos sighed and said he missed his mother’s cooking—especially his favorite dish,...

                             It was meant to be a fun way for us to spend time together—a new recreational adventure beneath the waves. The day started with one of the quirkiest tasks ever: getting into our wetsuits. I now have a profound empathy for sausages; the way we had to squish and squeeze ourselves into those skin-tight suits was something else. But once I was in, the sensation was unmatched—sleek, warm, and ready to glide effortlessly through the ocean. The wetsuit kept the biting chill at bay by hugging every curve, aided by a generous dusting of baby powder to prevent it from sticking. (A word of caution: if you ever need a bathroom break, escaping that suit isn’t a quick fix!) With our bodies clad in a streamlined armour, we strapped on our diving tanks, secured weight belts loaded with lead blocks, donned our hoodies, goggles, and mouthpieces, and even put on our slippers and flippers. In that moment...

  In the idyllic town nestled near a serene lagoon, where weekends were synonymous with freedom and laughter, my heart found its anchor. He was seven years my senior, a striking figure of unwavering courage as a Navy diver, and the embodiment of grace as he glided across the waters on skis. From the first moment I saw him, he was the boy who captured my heart through all my school years. Our families’ weekend retreats were held in quaint holiday house owned by his parents, a tradition that became the backdrop to some of my most cherished memories. He was tall, his presence commanding, with a personality that sparkled as brightly as the summer sun reflecting off the water. To him, I was the younger sister, a title that became both a comfort and a source of longing. Weekends were spent on the water, where he patiently taught me to waterski, his laughter mingling with the sound of the waves. His encouraging words and the warmth of his smile made those lessons more than just a pastime—...

Toothache—it has a unique way of taking over your entire being, doesn’t it? It all began during my holiday. Perhaps it was the change in diet, or just one of life's unpredictable surprises, but there it was: a relentless, throbbing pain. Toothache had claimed me. Nothing could compare to it—not even the worst migraine. It reduced me to a miserable, sleepless child once again, grasping at any semblance of relief. Two days later, I flew home, determined to seek professional help. Yet, as luck would have it, the local dentist's earliest appointment was three weeks away. Desperation led me to try every remedy in the book: cloves, toothache mixtures, painkillers—you name it. Eventually, the pain eased enough for me to catch some rest, and over time, it vanished altogether. By the time my appointment arrived, the tooth seemed fine. Money was tight, so I opted to let it slide. Fast forward two months, and the pain returned with a vengeance one fateful evening. This was no mere inconve...

  In a quaint, close-knit town, a newlywed couple set out to create their cozy nest—a home filled with love, laughter, and personal touches. While their humble abode already radiated warmth, it still lacked a few essentials. Determined to contribute, the husband embarked on his first solo shopping trip since their wedding. With a simple list—bread and butter—and an envelope of carefully counted coins, he made his way through the bustling town square. The market was alive with vibrant stalls, the scent of fresh produce and baked goods weaving through the air. He soaked in the sights, sounds, and aromas, delighting in the charm of the place. As he meandered past vendors, something unexpected caught his eye—a lush, emerald fern nestled among potted plants, its delicate fronds swaying as if whispering promises of beauty and tranquillity. He imagined it perched in a sunlit corner of their home, a symbol of growth and the new life they were building together. Without hesitation, he han...

                                         I had never heard of Orania, let alone visited, but what an eye-opener—it completely exceeded my expectations. The people here can do anything. The town has everything: shops, computers, Netflix, churches—wow! One of the things I loved most was the strong sense of community. In the city, we seem to have lost that connection—looking out for one another, truly caring. But here, it felt different. Mornings start with coffee on the stoep , watching neighbours head to work, exchanging greetings that come naturally—no forced smiles, just genuine recognition. Coming home after work, you find children riding their bikes, playing in the streets, chasing each other around. People tend to their gardens, walk or cycle, chatting as they go. There's an undeniable sense of safety and belonging. During my visit, the heat was relentless, but the town swim...

  The looting of donated food is a terrible injustice—one that speaks to the cruel realities of the world. A few years ago, food aid was sent to Mozambique during a devastating time. I was living there when the floods hit. Water engulfed everything, making travel impossible. We had to find alternative food sources. Fortunately, we had friends who could send us parcels from South Africa, but they had to be flown into town. At the time, we lived in the Inhambane Province, where road access was cut off, leaving us isolated from other towns. The local Mozambicans relied on subsistence farming, growing just enough to survive. Any surplus was either traded or sold at local markets. But when the floods came, homes were destroyed, lives were lost, and hunger set in. NGOs and humanitarian organizations rushed to provide aid. Rescue operations used rubber boats with outboard motors to reach stranded families. Food arrived in massive quantities—bags upon bags of rice and mielie meal meant...

 Do you remember the song Another One Bites the Dust ? That was a classic hit from the '80s, a track that instantly transports me back in time whenever I hear it. Back then, a night at the disco meant hearing that song on repeat, with teeny boppers dancing and grooving like there was no tomorrow. It was pure, unfiltered fun. We were young, reckless, and newly married when we attended a friend's gig in Kroonstad. He was the DJ at a lively teeny bopper event, and the atmosphere was electric—girls dressed in shimmering outfits with big hair, boys rocking denim, leather jackets, long locks, and maybe an earring or two. Alcohol was strictly off-limits for the partygoers since they were underage, but that didn’t stop my partner—who was, of course, much older—from indulging. He was never good at holding his liquor, yet stubbornly convinced himself otherwise. As expected, we ended up quarreling over who would drive. He hated giving up the car keys, and that night was no exception. ...