from my mother's kitchen

  "The picture doesn't show me", I cried. Not being noticed, or left out of the group, was my greatest fear, and it has come about. Pictures don’t lie. Ranting and raving won’t reverse the situation. The damage to my ego was complete and disastrous.   The memory of posing for this photograph is etched in my mind. Somebody, or some accident had removed me. All my mates are there. Sorrel Waks, John Miller, and Kenny Resnick are all there. Loyal buddies as they were, it’s unimaginable to think that they allowed themselves to be photographed without me.   Some said that I was hallucinating, a common accusation among kids playing a joke on me, making me think that I was crazy or something. Impossible, I was there, why doesn’t my image show up?   Mrs. Deacon’s voice rang loudly in my ears, "The grade photo will be taken tomorrow". Neatly dressed in full school uniform was a strict requirement. Black blazers, and grey socks up to our knees. Ma was informed

A story by Leon G. A high white plastered wall protected our house from the service lane, where undesirable characters used to meet and plan diabolical schemes to steal, plunder and even murder, white people. During those days of apartheid, whites had a dichotomous attitude toward black people. Considered enemies, but treated like members of the family, caring for the kids, cleaning, cooking, and serving meals to white people seated like lords and ladies, on high-backed chairs, at tables, set with shining white plates, silver cutlery, each piece exactly, where it should be. Requiring permits to live in white areas, these black servants lived in misery,  being poor and worrying about the wives, husbands, and children left behind in tribal lands, because they didn't have permits. The small, windowless, dank, rooms in the backyards of their white employers,  were uncomfortably hot in the Summer and cold in the Winter, being covered with cheap corrugated, iron roofs. Our backyar

 A story by Leon G                                           A magic lantern movie ingeniously contrived using comic strips. Holding the box up for her to see, eyes pleading to be noticed. Ma carried on her knitting. Fingers, like claws, gripped the eyewear, twisting the expensive metal frame, into debris. Objects of value to himself, things he can’t do without, like his eyeglasses, ruined. Up early to make sure that his hair was neatly combed. White shirt, neatly ironed, laid out ready for the memorable day. The broad tie, blue stars on a red background, a victory garland dangling on his puffed up chest, shined like silk. The hand moved over the smooth material. Decorative clothing took hours to put on, making him late for school. This was the day the grade portrait would be taken Scrutinizing the arrangement of the pupils, according to height, taking a step backward, hand on chin, smiling, the bald-headed photographer pressed a button, and the historic event was chronicle

There was a beautiful, big, black Remington typewriter in my father’s office. It was used by a pretty lady, called Thora. She typed business letters, lists of stock in the shop, accounts and so on. The typewriter was always clicking away, but sometimes I would come into the office, and see the typewriter standing there, unused and silent. This typewriter fascinated me. One day, when I was about 10 years old, during the school holidays, I didn’t have much to do so I climbed on the bus that used to stop near the firestation, near where we lived at 031 Percy Stewart Str and rode to my father’s shop. I entered the office, as was my habit and found the typewriter standing there all forlorn. It may sound ridiculous to most people for a person to be scared to do such a paltry thing as to climb on a chair in my father’s office. But it’s a fact that for me it took a lot of courage to sit on Thora’s chair in front of the typewriter and even more courage to start banging on the keys. I was a v

She cooked for many people besides us kids and my “old man”. There was the old Mrs Fineberg up there in Leopard Str, old Mrs.Videgas down there at the bottom of Burger str. They used to kiss and hug me when I brought some tasty dish from Ma’s kitchen. I can still recall the delicious soft smell of their face powder and the enticing feel of their soft fleshy bodies as they hugged me. Usually they gave me one of the tasty cakes they’d baked. At first I delivered “Ma’s” food on my bicycle and later I used my dad’s Wolsely and later his green Chev. To this day I confess a special affection for old ladies. I don’t fantasize over them, that activity is reserved for film stars or girls that look like film stars, like Jane Russel in that famous, classic movie “Outlaw”. Under 18’s weren’t allowed in but somehow I managed it even though I was only about 12 years old when it showed at the President Cinema. When I was a young boy of about 14 I thought it was evil and unnatural to fantasi

She had help, usually a black lady kitchen maid, whose name was usually, Elizabeth, Mary or Lydia and a black gentleman by the name of John, but mostly she did the work. Their function, as far as I could see was so that they were people that “Ma” could shout at when things didn’t go right or when a dish got broken, or when the food got burnt. There were many things, I learnt from bitter experience that could go wrong in ma’s kitchen and bring the wrath of Ma down like the shrieking of a shot hyena.                                                                        Ma didn’t hesitate to let the culprit know how she felt. It was an anomaly of the era that criticizing was acceptable, in those funny days but complements were not so well received. Nobody gave complements. If you thought some good thought about someone you kept it to yourself. If you have some criticism you spoke it out. Today I realize that this was a very weird characteristic of life as I lived it. The result