Woke up feeling much more lively and like myself, that grim gut-churning feeling eased. Dreamt I was staring down into a well filled with white and golden arum lilies and noticed a meerkat (how do I explain that? Something like an African ground squirrel) tunneling into the side of the well, creating a new entrance or exit for itself under the arum leaves.
Woke up and sat up in bed, looking at the copy of Steve Biko’s I Write What I Like on my bedside table. It is 30 years this week since Biko, the Black Consciousness leader, was murdered by apartheid police. South Africa’s Frantz Fanon. Young, gifted, black and a victim of the most vicious race hatred known in the West, a system of dehumanization. What a waste.
There are large tractors smoothing out the school playing fields for cricket. Villagers walking their dogs, gardeners, tying up roses and washing cars in their drives. Farm labourers walking around the dorp looking for weekend jobs. Children racing past on bicycles, cats stalking lizards. Nearly summer, although spring has just begun. We don’t get four seasons here, only two. And our true season is drought.