Lost Soles

The fam­ily wed­ding was set to be an exquis­ite occa­sion. Our wed­ding out­fits were care­fully cho­sen weeks before the event. My two sons would be hand­some and smart in their crisp white shirts and neatly pressed black pants, all bought espe­cially for the nup­tials of their pre­cious aunt. As a sen­si­ble mother, and real­is­ing that children’s wed­ding out­fits were gen­er­ally one-off affairs, never to be worn again, I’d applauded my recession-savvy ways of bor­row­ing shoes for my youngest son.

Alive in South Africa

Alive! The word pops into my head as we enter Johannesburg’s Oliver Tambo Air­port. Ironic really, isn’t it, for a coun­try with one of the high­est crime rates in the world. Yet I feel it. Sense it. Am reminded of a friend who says he comes alive every time he returns – feels bor­ing, bland and dis­con­nected for weeks in his new coun­try, Aus­tralia every time he goes back.