As the clouds subside

CHAPTER 1:
In a yellow African grassland the wind slowly blows, increasing in momentum the clouds follow suit. My yellow paradise with a blue cap has disappeared and all I'm left with is rain. The first drop hits my forehead gently but too late to save the chill I feel down my spine. I realise that soon I am to be part of the storm.
I am alone, yet I feel that I should be looking for something. And I do. So as they drops start to penetrate my summer halter neck dress, I start looking for that something. Because I am not sure what it is, I duck, just in case it is below me and jump, just in case it is taller than me. Nothing.
I hear a slight noise and I am tempted to start running. But I don't run as I remind myself that 21-year-olds don't get frightened. I hear it again, but this time it starts to sound familiar than its first shriek. I look around again as its noise is becoming constant, more high pitched.
To me it feels as if this is the voice of victory. I imagine myself running closer and closer to the finish line, and the crowd is chanting my name louder and louder as I near crossing it. But then again I realise that I am still in the now wet grassland and the familiar noise which I have been hearing is the sound of a baby crying. I wonder whose baby it could be. Mine perhaps?
Was I so lost in day dreaming that I forgot that I had a baby. As I try to retrace my steps on how I landed in the grassy paradise I am met with visualisations of a man. Not the typical hunk, but good looking. Not short yet not tall. At some stage I come to understand that I might have been with that man sometime earlier. I smile as I remember how a friend of mine would say "I have known man". I ponder about how I could have landed there, as the baby's cries intensify. I look down and the most adorable baby lies, covered in a white sheet. The crying seizes as she glances at me. The clouds subside.

What shall I call you dear child?

The months have totaled seven already
But I still haven’t found a name for you to follow
What shall I call you dear child?

Phumzile, (after Mlambo-Ngcuka), Mzantsi’s first woman to come close to being president,
But somehow lost the plot in between her trips to Dubai and her stance on the land reforms in Zimbabwe. Maybe not...

Victoria, (after Mxenge), a victorious woman who did not just sit and grieve her husband's assassination in the hands of the aparthied government, but continued what he set out to achieve even if it would cost her, her life. Maybe...

Cecilia, (after Makiwane), the first black nurse who diligently carried out her duties in the toughest circumstances, even if it meant a toll to her physical and emotional well being. Maybe...

Brenda, (after Fassie), the woman became the Madonna for the townships by giving a voice to marginalised South African natives who needed to 'Vulindlela' - open the way for a revolution because they were getting 'Too late for Mama'. Maybe...

Nontsizi, (after Mqgwetho), the Xhosa poet who dedicated her life even before her time to speak about women's standing in society through the mouthpiece, Umthetheleli Wabantu - the voice of the people. Maybe...

But how dear child,
How do I give you a name that will be carved in society as legendary and not perverse?
How do I give you a name which will leave footprints such as those the woman above have?
How do I make sure that you will not follow the unknown citizen route that life has led me to?
How do I make sure that you will live to greatness?

Composed upon Mandela Bridge, March 19, 2008

This was inspired by William Wordworth's 1802 poem, "Composed upon Westminister Bridge, September 3, 1902". Passing through Braamfontien, one wonders how many realise that Johannesburg is such a good city to live in.

Composed upon Mandela Bridge, March 19, 2008

The world would agree that there isn’t anything more majestic
Even critics’ ramblings wouldn’t go far
A view so pure even in the polluted air,
Jozi, like a queen this beauty completes you
Even in the mornings traffic swells, hoots and echoes become your music
Where the Ponte, Sentech, and Hillbrow towers lie
Open these to the world as 2010 we approach
Show that your perfection is not only limited to Africa but to the world
Never before has a teenager of 14 years been so mature
Graced with an abundance of history, charm and culture
Jozi, you are so pleasant in the curves and meanders of your glory
Though a tear of crime and abuse runs down your cheek
You manage to hold this and not totally weep
Jozi, ooh so mighty in economy and potential
Show them that of wealth and wisdom you posses