Here’s another piece from my book – Let it Flow. If you like what you read, please consider purchasing the full book. Alternatively, the PDF version is available free for now. The details are at the end of this post.
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Memories of a Past Life
Warm days
spent playing in the garden.
Oblivious to time,
free of all responsibilities.
Childhood
in its purest form.
It felt like every day was sunny – no matter the season.
The weather always good…
No differentiation
between summer and winter,
and everything in between.
It took a song to teach me
the order of the seasons,
because to me,
those names didn’t matter.
What was important was when school holidays were coming,
especially December –
the longest annual escape
from the educational imprisonment called “school”.
My very first home:
a small and humble one-bedroom flat,
nestled in the rolling hills
that would be the backdrop to my formative years.
Mangos and litchis
(neither of which I ate),
jungle-like back yards,
troublesome monkeys,
not to mention the famous Indian Mynah.
1987 brought huge floods:
the Umgeni River bursting its banks;
many unable to travel due to the chaos.
My second home:
a fortress of sorts.
Massive to me;
Multiple levels which held both adventure and terror:
the prospect of nights alone,
along with the creatures (and imaginary robbers) that may invade my space.
My refuge under the dining room table:
a spot where I’d hide when upset,
feeling injustice at how I’d been treated,
running away from everyone,
to wallow in my pain and soak in my sorrow.
Walking with my aunty and cousin to nursery school,
where the leftovers of a clothing factory
would make up swords and other creative toys.
Little minds on the way to big futures.
One term at an Indian junior school,
where I quickly made friends,
who tied my shoelace when I could not,
accompanied me in the schoolyard –
outsmarting the prefects
who didn’t take kindly to our ingenuity,
and unjustly banned our attempted rebellion.
Moving to another school:
a place of privilege,
where I felt out of place,
both in colour and personality.
Embarrassed that I’d be dropped off in a delivery van,
while others came in a Ferrari.
It’s not that they were better than me,
but more the feeling of being different:
barely another of the same pigmentation,
in a time when Apartheid was on its way out.
One friend in seven years.
Deeply embedded in an alien environment,
which I so wish to avoid for my own kids.
Happier times, though,
when surrounded by my own people:
family and the few friends I had.
Saturday night movies at The Wheel;
Occasional adventures at The Workshop;
Shopping expeditions to The Pavilion;
Delicious chocolate cakes at Overport City;
and the ever-present Musgrave Centre,
which was core to my existence in later years.
Its library was my first port of call for school projects:
research via catalogue cards and paper books,
photocopying endless pages of relevance.
A far cry from the instant access available to today’s kids
with the tap of a screen.
One day internationals and test matches at Kingsmead Cricket Stadium.
The excitement of foreign teams returning to our shores
after years of isolation.
Sun, surf, and the big sea;
Capital Radio,
a constant soundtrack to my early years.
The Blue Lagoon;
The city centre;
Wimpy, Jolly Grubber, Talk of the Town,
and other takeaways…
our weekly culinary highlight.
Karate on Saturday mornings:
hard work made bearable
by handball or rounders afterwards.
Terrifying gradings:
gashkus in the presence of Lao Tze Bob,
who was the biggest monster to us all –
though his harsh discipline was not without wisdom.
Sunday morning runs at Greyville Racecourse,
followed by a trip to Game City for eighty cent cooldrinks…
how drastically the price has changed.
Also on Sundays,
squash at the top of the Royal Hotel;
endless hours of tennis at Berea Park;
informal cricket matches there, too,
with all the seriousness of an international fixture.
Backyard soccer and tennis;
sweet treats after hours of exertion.
The beachfront,
with its bumper cars and pools,
rickshaws and rides,
including those red cable cars,
suspended high above the earth,
feeding my fear of heights.
The pier,
stretching out far into the water:
the feeling of standing over the Indian Ocean,
saved only by concrete blocks under my feet.
Holding firm for decades,
yet vulnerable to collapse
in an instant.
My third home:
the place where I still live
when my dream life takes me back to Durban.
Century-old foundations,
sturdy wooden floors,
light fittings that rattled every time a car drove past,
bumping its tunes loud enough to be a public broadcaster.
(Occasionally) taking out the garbage on Sunday nights,
scared of the maggots that had gathered
in those dreadful black bags,
which also held the prospect
of other unpleasant creatures that may have settled inside.
My first colour computer:
hours and hours spent
playing Jonty Rhodes Cricket,
Championship Manager,
and all the other games that so occupied me back then.
The wonders of Internet access at home:
a lengthy extension cord
plugged into a dial-up modem;
that familiar sound every time
I attempted to connect,
hoping there would be an available slot on the exchange.
Then experiencing a world of possibilities online –
some of which were far from wholesome
(though perfectly normal for a teenage boy).
My awesome Lego collection:
a cricket stadium being the crowning achievement of junior construction.
Walls plastered with posters of sports stars.
A CD drawer that filled up quickly,
as my addiction to music flourished
in that very room of mine.
Dedicated Gameboy sessions.
Piles and piles
of soccer, cricket, and tennis magazines;
not to mention Disney Adventures.
M-Net movies;
snippets of KTV;
and the endless sitcoms
which were the highlight of a regulated TV schedule.
The first day of high school:
intense social anxiety,
not fitting in at first,
but eventually finding comfort within a group of peers.
Classroom cricket in the Riccitelli Oval:
a highlight of our mornings.
Along with “checking” my friend’s homework
when I hadn’t done my own.
The enduring terrors of P.E. –
swimming remaining my nemesis.
Sports days at the university fields:
sarcastic replies
to spirited chants of support for the athletes.
The horrors
of high school Maths and Science,
balanced with the comfort of History in a small class –
the special ones,
who saw value in the subject,
and gained so much more
than simply learning facts and figures.
1994 elections:
a week off school,
stoked by fears of violence,
in the days when the masses came out
to vote for the very first time.
Doc Martens a must-have;
lollipops in the back of class;
drinking fizzy drinks
through holes poked in the can;
a tuckshop I never quite made use of;
and the vending machine that stared at me daily,
as I waited to be fetched after school.
Crocodile clips and hydrochloric acid,
the wonders of phosphorus out of a jar;
circuit boards and Bunsen burners –
the fun side of Science.
Drama lessons
at the neighbouring convent school up the hill.
Berg winds and scorching Durban heat.
A peaceful view of the ocean
from my Standard Six classroom window:
especially serene on a Friday afternoon,
when we would be released
after a week of confinement.
Tennis after school,
along with cricket practice,
and the occasional match –
though I was never considered good enough for the more important teams.
Putting my hand through an old window,
being calmed with sugar water
(which I didn’t need).
The headmaster rushing me off to hospital.
The most painful medical experience ever:
injections and stitches
in the very centre of a fresh wound.
The attempted hijacking after school one day:
a near-death experience
which transformed my father’s life,
yet had little effect on mine.
Trauma counselling held little value to me,
for it was only the first night,
and first few days,
that fear lingered.
The court appearance later that year:
having to face the suspect in person,
unable to testify in camera because the facilities were unavailable.
Our Matric jerseys,
together with the traditional war cry in the middle of the Quad:
reminding the school of who we were.
I never participated much… caring little for such public displays of status.
Free periods in the library,
spent reading nonsense on the Internet.
Studying for,
then writing,
Matric finals
at a nearby hall.
My wobbly desk secured by folded paper under one of the legs.
My final exam,
coming the day before my eighteenth birthday.
But a death in the family that very same day:
the demise of my school career,
coinciding with the earthly demise of an uncle who had taught me much,
though I never really valued him while he was with us.
Ramadaan through that summer;
anxiety about exam results,
then finally getting the news that January morning:
doing better than I’d expected,
and choosing to leave the comforts of home,
and make the move to Cape Town.
Learning to cook over those last few weeks,
before embarking on what would effectively become a one-way journey.
For I never returned to my home city as a resident…
but always as a visitor.
And although those visits are now few and far between,
my memories and sentimental love have not faded.
For in this heart and mind of mine,
Durban will always remain
Home.
Date written: November 2016
Background:
This was a milestone piece, written as I approached the end of my 18th year in Cape Town. It was a halfway point in life: I’d spent my first 18 years in the city of my birth (Durban, South Africa), then moved across the country after high school. I’ve always been very nostalgic, and as I reflected on my life, memories of Durban came flooding back. This piece reflects just glimpses of a lifetime which I could never truly capture in words.
It’s something that I hope will take me back in time when I’m old and senile. A throwback to a childhood that I’ll tell my grandkids about, fondly recalling how much simpler life was back then. How much safer the world was.
And when I’m gone, and my generation has passed into history, I hope this piece will remain standing for future generations to get a glimpse into a reality that’s so far removed from the lives they will live at that time. And maybe…just maybe…it will spark in them some desire to reconnect with that which is natural, human, and not engulfed in the technologically-saturated, dystopian depression which I imagine our world could easily slip into decades from now.
Image source: unknown
The full book – Let it Flow – is available electronically via Amazon Kindle, Google Play Books, Apple Books, Kobo, and more. A print edition is available in South Africa via direct order.
For the moment, you can get the free PDF version by filling out this form.
slip-sliding away..... 
Very nice piece here, I really enjoyed it. A nice rundown of a life, which gives the reader many insights into the poet.
I did not realize you were an avid tennis player. I used to play all the time, though not so much these days because public courts are not easy to come by here in London, and they are usually packed on the weekends.
I have tried to warm myself up to cricket, which looks like a fascinating sport, but I don’t know the rules and have no idea what’s happening. I would like to get out to a match though when the lockdown eases.
Again, thanks for sharing your poetry.
Thanks Vance. I thought I was better than I actually was – in both tennis and cricket, but the fun was in playing, so the competitive angle didn’t really sour the experience.
Sadly haven’t played properly again, consistently, since my teenage years.
Try out cricket for sure. It’s sort of like baseball, but I would think a bit more composed (and likely boring to uninitiated spectators, but not players).
Our kids are leaning cricket in school, and it does help that I used to pitch baseball to them. It’s a huge sport here because of the large population of Indians, Pakistanis, West Indians, South Africans, Africans and Australians.
Niceee 🌼🌼