“I want to be a better writer. Help me,” She pleaded. She wanted her words to touch someone. She wanted someone to connect with her ramblings.

The best advice she gave was no different to words of wisdom for the walk of life. “Keep writing… reading also helps with that.” 

And so she must keep scribbling on the page as best she can. Keep turning the page until the ink dries and soon, they will connect…


I have notebooks everywhere. Loose pieces of paper next to the bed, on the kitchen counter, in the bookshelves, inside drawers, all of them, pleading for my handwriting. They are begging for my ink to bleed on them. “Write anything!” They implore. And so, I try. I use the booklet on the counter at the front door for shopping lists. The journals next to my bed, one is for bible verses and lessons, another I use for workouts and to measure my thighs. I use some for to do lists.

There are pages and pages and pages but not enough words to fill them all…


My learners are working on their own identity posters. Some of them found it difficult so I decided to give it a try to help them to see how it is done. Here is my attempt:

I have been playing the guitar since I  was a teenager. It makes me feel confident knowing that I can play my favourite songs. People think it is unusual that a black lady teaches English – it’s not my mother tongue! I have been told that I have a big heart – too big a heart. I treat people very well, but they don’t always do the same for me. Sometimes it’s hard to be me, but what would the world be without me?


I will make copies of my first draft just so they understand that writing is not always perfect; it is a work in progress… wish me luck!



She could hear her own heart beating in her ears, the silence ringing in the room. She had read the endless novel about the sad old man that normally helped lure sleep to her. She felt her eyes burn- just hours ago they were teasingly heavy with the promise of the sweetest dreams, now they burn, frustrated at a vow broken. It is 23:58 and sleep is nowhere to be found…

Revolving Door

He was coming to pick her up! Her heart quickened and her breathing escalated. “It’s not what you think”, she said to the wide eyed bantu and stomach knotted dork that staired back at her in the mirror. She put powder on her face and a bit of mascara. She kept her tshirt on and pulled on a pair of jeans. “He won’t even notice”, she reasurred her reflection.

She climbed into the passenger side, pleasantries and directions were passed over the hip hop on the radio. “It’s gonna be a drive to get cash then a drive to fetch the vegtables. He’ll drop you off and that will be it”, she said over and over in her head. There was no more talking. He looked ahead and she looked out the window.


Eventually, he drove her home and the entire time she braced herself for the final goodbye, never to see him again. He pulled over at her gate, switched off the car and opened the car door – no goodbye yet….

He came in and it was like it used to be. They giggled reluctantly, teased and got caught up. They shared music, then listened to it -not much was said after that. He stretched out on the narrow couch and soon so did she. Before they knew it they were intertwined -no other way to fit onto that narrow chocolate couch. She played with his big toe and he tickled the bottom of her feet -it wasn’t funny, it was familiar…


She is his revolving door – she will keep rotating – seemingly out of control-but always with arms wide open to him… That is the long and short of it…