A cloudscape floated over the grill cart, tempting a salivating barbecue for the sausage-craving farmer. Kamuti was a Grade-A braai master. He fancied red-hot coals under the snake-thin sausages. Then he wielded a No.4 axe, and took to the Kalahari. A silver-grey tree, acting like a one-star hostel for the green-tail birds, spookily drew his attention. ...
Long ago, the chocolate-brown moths were colourful butterflies. They flew over the trumpet-shaped lilies and were nicknamed the flying flowers. There were countless purple, blue and yellow moths. These troops of rainbow-like insects painted the crystal clear ponds. The insects floated on the water in half-moon marches. Soon the reddish yellow and deep red moths...
The wind ripped the loincloths of grinning youngsters at the Augusteneum Mission. Underneath the sun-blocking tree, Karuru wrote his name on the rose-coloured sand. Firstly, the clumpy bearded teacher drew a tick next to the mass killings’ name. He shook his scattered-brained head and erased the wicked name with his military boots. Secondly, he sprinkled...
Long ago, underneath a yellow acacia tree, a redheaded green fly had smashed one of its see-through wings against the dancing branches. A small episode in the Kalahari that wouldn’t be overheard because of the angry wind threatening to dig up the papery tree. The crystal wing was not wholly off though. The green fly...
The Protection Troopers tasked me to bring Kambangane’s skull. So, I skilfully hunted him down in the feet-baking Kalahari’s sand.
Donkey years ago, along the edges of the Omatako River, a naked-chest clan used to wolf dragonflies. Throughout the feast, kinfolks puffed the scattered see-through wings.
Long ago in the Kalahari, porcupines were barbed thorn bushes that sprouted beige flowers and pencil-thin leaves.
Sally was squatting underneath the thatch-roof patio. Her reddened and swollen eyes were a clue to her insomnia. So, she buried her yo-yo hair between her knees. She lifted her head after picking mom’s footsteps. “What’s wrong?” asked mom, rubbing her scruffy hair.
The clock had just struck 12 midnight, and an owl hooted. This time, not a distress call of a spell or announcing a dark cloud hanging over them, but a merry tooting in the midnight forest.
The baby-face girls crowded the Katutura Country Hotel. The only open space was between the nylon chairs. Even a housefly would not risk entering the airtight dome for free.