Wanda Watt
Wanda Watt, an artful intellectual who lives with her bestie Noah Little, is a free-range ruminator who can stomach only so much. Watt’s real identity is known to the editor.
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Of white dogs and dogged whites
Noah works too hard. Conscientious lawyer that he is, he is eternally busy. Shuffling papers from in-tray to out-tray takes up most of his time. When he has a spare moment, he talks sonorously into a machine, a process known as “dictating”.
Will we never erase race?
The professor has left. I mourn the departure of his tall, elegant frame and must seek consolation—indeed, diversion—in the bustling presence of Noah, that dear
The stain that is our racialism
Terence, fruit of my loins, is speaking to me on the phone. The call is mine. He visits us sometimes, but phones only when overwhelmed by a rush of filial piety. In common parlance, this is known as feeling sorry for himself because he is a hangdog in the familial dogbox.
Social engineering ain’t no party
The professor is staying with us overnight. I like him so. He is black enough to escape the tag of ‘Coloured’, and clever enough to be called, by those who have no better arguments to make, an Uncle Tom.
The draughts of change
“A time for reflection,” says Noah.
All rise for my Lord, the Meyer of Washington
“Quisling!” says my bestie.
Unrationed, irrational, immigration for a dying nation
Sean and Seamus, the hobgoblins down the road, have gone unmentioned for several months. You may have forgotten them, but I have not. They have been travelling in the British Isles and, now returned, are guests round our dinner table.
To gaze on straits in a time of war
Noah really is my bestie. We’ve lived together for years and love each other a great deal. “What is love?” you ask — and I ask it too, especially when Noah is being a beastie. But I don’t love anyone else as much as I love him, so he occupies that peculiar chamber of the heart reserved for the person one loves especially. Well, you know what I mean. Even if I don’t.
When family ties do tie too tight
It’s Sunday, shortly after midday, and the meat is on the braai. Noah’s cousin, Biff, has invited us to share it, together with all the usual trappings. We know them on no better than a wedding‑and‑funeral basis, so the invitation came as a surprise. Equally surprising is the fact that we are the only guests.
Letters spray – ET, IQ, BEE and EE
When he was a boy, Terence adored E.T., that irresistible little creature from outer space. Unprompted, he would chirp “Eeee Teee,” which was fair enough, and “Home,” which I naturally found endearing. When he solemnly intoned, “I’ll… be… right… here,” I even cherished hopes for his political development. Right here is right on.