Memory, a whip in calloused hands
Lying pale, against a backdrop of starched, white sheets, a tube prying open your mouth, reaching into your throat, fetching you a little more life. ‘But her blood pressure,’ ’After this pint of blood we’ll know’, ‘Maybe she’ll be fine’, ’Ma, moenie bang wees nie. Ek is hier,’ ‘Kidney function’, ‘Take her home!’, ‘Adrenalin,’ ‘She’s stable’, ’A death in dignity,’ ‘Pulse’, ‘She’s 85,’ - It’s the monitors behind you keeping...
Read MoreBefore I forget #1
Our fathers were friends. We became friends and together we whiled our childhood away. They were days of wishing our fathers owned CNA, just so we could have every Sweet Valley book we wanted. Only Aaliya was smart enough to swear by Nancy Drew instead. Of Friday afternoon street cricket with Vijay. Vijay, the Hong Konger who spoke with a London twang and walked with an irreverent swagger but never minded a bunch of kids haranguing him to stay for cricket. Of Friday nights, the four of us, Sulaiman, Ragiema, Aadila and Nabila packed into the back seat of my dad’s car, giggling and...
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