from my mother's kitchen

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 ba...

 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 st...

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...