When we arrive at the airport, will you be waiting for us dressed in the colours of the union and waving flags purchased in London town. You know the ones you trophied during the good old days before they were sullied. We will emerge wrapped in sunglasses – not quite Police ones – wide-eyed at any rate in the African sun – ready with our talking irons and the mother of all catch ups sizzling on the charcoals. We can get worked up into a lather about White House nationalists and blond blusterers, knowing we will change nothing. We will feel a whole lot better though, putting the world to rights over a very cold glass of Backsberg chenin blanc – although I think you prefer a good red – and rump steaks on the braai. We can sit and idle away the time, re-living childhoods that only we remember. No matter what, we will head for Hoekwil and over a Victoria sponge (go big or we go home) and Cakey will be satisfied.

© Rick Frame


With the light, the bird song. The dawn brings life. You remind me to step outside to listen. When we were wildlife we too would have stirred on our earthen beds and looked out at the silhouette of the thorn tree, the morning shadow. The hearth, the only smouldering. The baby crying and snuggling closer to her mother’s warmth. These are the early years of flight or fight, our Stone Age brains, keeping us safe. Now our ancient memories, which the body remembers, are caged in modernity. Today we live without the sabre-toothed tigers, but it is scarier still – existential almost – in deep thought with our children – how they manage, navigate their lives and the tightrope walk. I know if my son were born black, I would be having another kind of conversation altogether.