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"Don't you see? I'm madly in love with you! And I just don't understand how you say you love me too, and yet you keep me at arm's length! You have no right to do that to m-..." "I'm HIV positive," she stammered. Ilze wasn't expecting what happened next. She hadn't planned on cutting off, nor had she intended on blurting it out so carelessly. She braced for the very worst. She knew he was angry; how could he not be. She braced herself, expecting him to lash out at her or worse ... turn around and leave without saying a word further. Instead, Patrick threw his arms around her and pulled her into his chest. They stood there for what felt like hours. She sobbed silently into his hairy chest while he stroked her hair, stopping only to wipe the tears streaming down his cheek from his own eyes. She drew back and looked into his dark, hazel eyes. Ilze lifted her hands to his face and brushed his long blonde hair to the sides, tucking them beh

She smiled. Then he smiled. And that is how their story began. He hadn't been expecting to meet anyone new that day. It had been an ordinary morning; an ordinary start to an ordinary day. He woke up on the same side of his ordinary bed, with a clear view of his ordinary front yard which was plain and, quite frankly, ordinary. He liked it that way: simple and plain. He got out of bed, washed his face, got dressed and, finally, left his barren apartment in search of nothing. She, on the other hand, woke up feeling glum. She loved her job, but found some of her clients were unnecessary and somewhat spoiled. Yet, she practiced her smile as she brushed her teeth and combed her hair backwards. While sitting down to her routine breakfast of toast and tea, she checked her phone inbox for that special text message which was taking it's sweet time getting to her. She feared that her boss had forgotten to deposit their paychecks yet again. She sighed before finishing off her toast. She

It was just as he had always imagined it would be. There were birds chirping and laughing children. Everyone knew him, and he knew them all. It was as if he were still alive. Nothing but the weather had changed. It was revoltingly hot there. This made very little sense. They were out in the park. It was a beautiful sunny day, and it was scorching hot! Yet there was no sun in the sky. This must be a dream, he thought to himself. Beverly traveled at a very slow pace down a long, spiraling pathway - greeting everyone he encountered along the way. After all, he knew them all. And it would have been rude not to; they were all staring at him. He didn't understand why they were staring. His was a face which they had seen enough of, he had been told. He remembered how hurt he had been when Dionne pulled him aside a couple of hours earlier to tell him what a revolting and pitiful creature he was. She was right. It bothered him that she had captured his essence in so few words. He won

There is this movie; a movie about a man who wrote a book about a writer who found a book. The book which the writer had found was written by an old war-veteran; but he had not known this when he submitted it as his own. The writer of the book, the writer in the book and the old man all share one thing in common: they are all writers. Each had a story, and each story lead them to the craft. Each story began with love; and each ends with heartache and tears. I am a writer, and I too have one such story. It began at the end of an adventure I wished would never end. Like many others who had walked this path, I learned the hard way that love - the purest and strongest source of inspiration - can also be the most cursed. I fell in love with an idea; and the idea was beautiful. It was the idea of laying in bed beside the woman who kept my heart beating. It was the idea of waking up to my favourite dream every morning; the one where it's her lips that breathé life into my own at every

I was supposed to report to work at Grocott's Mail on Monday the 2nd of September. I had a profile article to write on the editor, Mr Steven Lang, and I intended it to be a really good one. I knew I had a long week ahead of me the previous evening as I sat high and drunk with my friends in the lounge of our vacation home. Winston, Beezwax and I met in first year. I maintain till this very day that the one thing that brought us together is our mutual appreciation for alcohol, marijuana and beautiful women. What kept us all together, however, is the respect we share as well as the way there is never a dull moment when we all three get together. This was our first time living together under the same roof. I was supposed to have secured myself a room in an on-campus residence for the short vacation - however, I opted rather to keep the cash my mother sent me and make memories with my best friends. I felt bad at the time because I know she's really struggling a lot with paying fo

It feels as though I have not been honest in the longest of times yet again. Truth is that I truly love her with all my being; and every woman I wind up with in the interim is naught but a distraction from the inevitable fight for her heart. I see it in her eyes that she wants nothing but to be with me - but it's excessively complicated and regardless of what I try do or say, I'm very likely to push her further away. I cannot for the life of me tell her how I feel because she is likely to laugh it out. I love you. I just wish you felt the same way sometimes. Even though I know you do, it would make it so damn easier if you just said it so I know what to do next.

Acknowledgements This next post is an excerpt from a work-shopped production I was cast in last year (2012). The piece was directed wonderfully by Mandla Mbothwe (assisted by Ms Jess Harrison and Themba "Crocodile-Longlegs" Mchunu) - all of whom were a pillar of strength along one of the most challenging journeys of my life. The production brought together an auditorium full of strangers and churned out a close-knit family of strong performers ... my family. To my brother Sisesakhe UThixo Isigqibo Ntabezo, I say thank you for never failing to motivate me along this fool's quest to hopefully becoming the best drunken writer from our lifetime. To my mother, who doesn't know half the things I do here - but trusts that I will not fail to attain a degree. To my best friends Wesley (who never fails to bemuse me), Violet (who never lets me forget who I am and where I come from), Tumi (who I know still loves me - even though I've become estranged) and most sincerely to

Sometimes words are simply not enough to express how one truly feels. My heart feels as though it's been bitten into by a leech and sucked dry. This is why...

Fade in. As I lay in bed on a cloudy Friday morning - beside me a gorgeous friend, inside me a clanging voice desperately trying to grab my attention - I closed my eyes and listened. Lebo:   Morning Lebsie: Hi. Lebo:   Are you still mad at me? Lebsie: Are you still the bastard who ruined my life? ... Awkward silence ... Lebo:   Did you watch that video on the New York Times Gill recommended? Lebsie: Do you remember us watching it? Lebo:   Do you really have to be this hostile so early in the morning? Lebsie: I don't like you. Lebo:   I don't like you either. Three days ago: A forced reunion. Lebo:   Le Awesomish. Lebsie: Yah. Lebo:   It's been a while. Lebsie: It certainly has. ... Awkward silence... ... ... ... Lebo:   You got the girl and lost her - all in two weeks. Lebsie: A right side better than what you've ever done! Kim, Caylin, Tumi, Trudy - you failed every time!!! So fuck off. Lebo:  Why so hostile? Lebsie: I hate you. Leb

Last night we lay in each other's arms, my room lightly lit by the faint light protruding through the shirt I had hung over my laptop. I do not know why I keep it on at all times; maybe the slow hum of its overheating hard drive reminds me that I am still alive, or maybe it's the comfort of having light in my life. Either way, the droning sound heightened the passionate atmosphere. In that moment, I felt as though nothing could go wrong in my life. I felt whole; as though the past had somehow written itself out. I felt as though all the barriers which separated our two worlds had been broken. I wanted that moment to last forever. Forever. The word that frightens me most.  I have said many a time over the past two years that I am ready to tap out of 'the game' and settle down, embrace monogamy and devote my everything to that one special woman who I will hail from mountaintops as my one and only; but the mere thought of commitment scares me. Though as I lay there

It's Sunday - again. And again, I find myself sitting in a dark, smoke-filled room pondering my very existence. I have had a week filled with intensity, passion, love all eclipsed by a dense layer of lonliness and lingering feelings of isolation from reality which I cannot for the life of me shake off. Two years ago, I met a woman and had no idea that she would change my life. Two weeks ago, we shared a moment which set us off on a journey to heightened sensuality that had us both shaking in anticipation of climatic bliss; a journey that never ended and continues to fill my days with endless wonder. I felt her heart open as she embraced me, heard her tears fall as she confided in me and saw her soul for the very first time - and it scared me. Happy. That is how I feel. I do not know where this road will take us, nor do I wish the journey to end. All I know for certain is that it must be love - or I'm the fool again.

He has always been there. We shared a roof for the first seven years of my life. It wasn't always pleasant - but it made all the difference in the world between being a lonely only child and having a companion. I have this memory - rather vague, but intense nonetheless. It was back in pre-primary school - I think we were five years old or so. I had always been the whiner between the pair of us, but that day was different: he was sobbing slightly and I walked up to him, knelt down before him and asked him why he was upset. I cannot for the life of me remember what his reason was, but that was the first time I had seen him vulnerable, and quite possibly the very last. He carried me through pre-primary school. I don't actually remember this happening, but he would complete my tasks for me when I couldn't, I was told. I do remember that I was complete shit and basically everything, though - but nothing occupational therapy couldn't fix. We both made it to primary schoo

Life is not that short. Live it as you wish to be remembered. We have all been granted the gifts of time, love and life; how we use them is our business and ours alone. It is not the choices we make which define us. At the end of the day, it is how we make them which determines the kinds of people we grow to be. My father made his, and I have made mine. I chose to forgive. My father - the man I hated for as far back as I can remember - has died. I hated him because he hated me. It sounds petty, but it's true. What man goes through life without once calling to check on his offspring? What man is a man who does not raise his children to be better than what he was? In a sense, he fulfilled the latter question: I now know the kind of father I do not wish to be. I made that promise to myself a long time ago - my children will know who I am and I will know them. Whether I can stomach to be around their mother or not; through the good times and the bad

Contextualization Israeli Apartheid Week is a global protest which aims to boycott Israel’s actions against Palestinians. Israel has occupied Palestine for over four decades, and subjected Palestinians to atrocities not dissimilar to those inflicted on black South Africans during apartheid. This editorial package focusses on the week-long series of events; rallies, lectures and cultural performances which were held at varies venues around Rhodes University campus in Grahamstown from Monday, 11 March 2013 – Friday, 18 March 2013. The event was hosted by the Rhodes University Palestinian Solidarity Forum (RUPSF) ‘supporting the Palestinians and raising awareness for their plight in the Occupied Territories and neighbouring refugee camps’. Editorial Having missed the entirety of Rhodes University’s Israeli Apartheid Week initiative, it is with absolute remorse that the photographs had to be sourced from the internet. The decision to go with the pictures provided came

This past week has certainly been a trying one, I thought to myself an hour or so ago when I dotted my final full-stop and saved my English essay on Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness . It was due this passed Friday morning, but I talked my way to an extension. I needed more time; more time to sleep, to heal my nerves. Time is what I sorely needed, and yet I wasted it on long nights spent inebriatedly wandering the streets of Grahamstown among students celebrating an Irish saint whose patronage very few even know. St Paddy's day ... A waste of time. Time which could have been spent following the news. Time which is so precious, and yet is taken for granted. Time Mandy Rossouw ran out of; but used well. I never got to meet her, but I revered her from my pre-journalist days. Hers was a name I heard many a time on the radio while stuck in the traffic after school before I grew to care for politics; her tweets kept me updated on matters for which I had to care and her craft inspire

 Foreword My writing assignment for this week was to scribble together a half-decent justification of why I write - based in part on George Orwell's piece similarly titled. I admittedly had not read the entirety of Orwell's reasoning as to why he writes - and that is partially what has prompted this introduction to my very cliche reason for why I write. It's with an apologetic heart that I reflect on Orwell's words: apologetic, simply, because had I engulfed his wisdom prior to slurring my way to a minimum word count, I would not have been so vague to the extent that I wound up sounding tragically devoid of human emotion. I would have not felt so fearful of baring all to the world as I was had I known that George Orwell was as much a wallflower as I am, that he too felt lonely. He too had visitations from a realm completely different from our own; one where oddballs such as him and I are welcomed, where we escape to when our minds are left to wander. Had I tre