Have You Ever

  There was a lot of yelling—roughly 99% mine, which honestly should’ve shattered some glass—but when you walk in on an infidelity horror show that feels specifically choreographed to ruin your life, you don’t exactly whisper. Let’s set the scene: my car is packed like a refugee convoy, loaded with every last remnant of my hopeful, blissfully unaware past. I’m carrying something—maybe a box labelled “our future”, maybe my last shred of dignity—and just as I step inside, there it is. The betrayal. Live. In action. No commercial breaks. He wasn’t just cheating—no, no—he was staging a performance. The timing? Impeccable. The audacity? Off the charts. And of all the choices in the universe, he chose her —his ex, a woman with whom history had already proven that love could not, would not, and should not thrive. Yet there they were, reigniting the dumpster fire, with me as the unwilling witness to their second act of self-destruction. Now, listen—I’m not here to critique his terrible ...

Cancer is a fight that demands everything—your strength, your resilience, your hope. It strips you down to your core, forcing you to confront your limits and redefine what it means to survive. But for me, the battle wasn’t just against the disease. It was against betrayal. When I was at my most vulnerable, undergoing treatment, my ex-husband decided to cheat on me. While I was fighting for my life, he was out there, breaking the vows that were supposed to mean something. And as if that wasn’t enough, when my cancer progressed to Stage 4, he didn’t just abandon me emotionally—he divorced me. It wasn’t just heartbreak. It was cruel. I remember the moments of loneliness, the nights spent wondering how someone could be so callous, so selfish. But then came the anger—the fiery, unapologetic rage that reminded me I was still alive, still fighting, still capable of feeling something other than despair. And let me tell you, that anger was powerful. I didn’t just hope for karma to catch up with...

  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,...