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Who won the fight? Shaka Zulu vs Moshoeshoe I of Lesotho

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We welcome the Crowns of Belgium and Lesotho as referrees.  Welcome to the official record of the ancient fight between ancestors. I am your host, Kote.  Today, we will look into the innevitable historical clash between King Moshoeshoe I and King Shaka Zulu, which would have inevitably taken place as we explore below. First, a PSA. #PSAstarts "I am making my declaration of eviction serving notice arrangement public so that the IcA may cringe, because they know who I am, and how far I'm prepared to go  # IsvaraParamAtma Bhagavan   # PerTerraASangui neAdIdenti  level magick on them." #PSAend. So, my name is attached to landmass in the minelands, where dwell 482 (growing estimate) grown ups who are my Grandmother's people, literally, because the landmass used to be a part of Basotholand until 1868, when our king annexed his cousins (my grandmother's grandfather  # KoteJacobusMont oedi  when he was a boyman of 5-8 yrs of age). Now, le...
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Words: Through The Eyes of a Writer

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 ...
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Time (A tribute to Mandy Rossouw)

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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...
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