9 Jul 2016


I'm sitting here
as the African sun shines onto my desk,
and I think of my father.

My father was a man of faraway places,
of dusty roads,
blonde bleached hair.

My father was a man from a sand-filled country as far as the eye can see,
Of manly toughness: weak as a thorn-bush,
strong as a Welwitschia leaf.

My father was a man of another country,
another language,
a life not my own.

My father taught me to change a car tyre,
To not fear the wild waves of the ocean.
He, unknowingly, gave me the tools for taking photos.

My father let us keep two slobbering, needy, lovable dogs.
He drove, fearlessly, through the broken streets of Cape Town.
He showed me that the answer to life's awkward moments is humour;

He taught me to adapt.
He taught me that the expanse of nature is the purest.

My father taught me that climbing roofs and trees isn't just for boys;
That the wet, wild grass should be walked on barefoot;
That the thick, ugly skin under your feet is useful, beautiful.

He taught me to take risks;
To paint kitchens pink;
To sand floors by hand and machine.

My father taught me to be still with one stern look.
To be bold.
To believe something holy.

He taught me that being rebellious is okay,
and you do recover, and that's okay too.

My dad taught me that there's no grey.
That our world could be black and white.
And even when the trials of adulthood engulf,
You have the black, and the white, to hold onto.

My father taught me that life is filled with many roads,
and airline tickets,
and adventures.

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