“….They were good times.
Our local gangsters, back then of the decidedly harmless variety, would sit at their street corner post, languid as bluebottles, drawing on one or another ‘zol’ (joint). Old faithful grannies in mantillas would make their way up the street for mass, as the church-bells pealed for the afternoon service. The jingle of the ice-cream truck could be heard as it made its way from street to street, offering treats to those children who weren’t already bloated with cakes, trifles and mince-pies.
As the sun slowly sank, the sound of children’s laughter punctuated the stillness, broken by the faraway strains of Boney M from somebody’s home.”
Read the rest of my story in the Kalahari Review:
http://www.kalaharireview.com/essays/2012/12/19/a-very-mazansi-christmas.html
dija magardie 