Why rock the boat?

Am I missing something here? If Zimbabwe, according to the Zimbabwean Herald, will one day be considered a “shinning example of Black Economic Empowerment” why are Zimbabweans leaving their country in droves? Or are they, in revolutionary language, counter-revolutionary.

“Wisdom should have convinced the white community in South Africa that they need to co-operate with the South African government to address the inequalities prevalent in that country,” the editorial read.

“In the same way that Zimbabweans got frustrated with the willing buyer-willing seller approach, the South Africans will also begin to take what is rightfully theirs by force if they see no progress in land redistribution."

The writer said that the fruits of Zimbabwe’s land reform programme were beginning to be seen.

“The huge payouts that new tobacco farmers are getting from the auction floors are transforming their lives.”


Zimbabwe was seen as the “bad apple” in the region led by a “delinquent leader” because it was dealing with the historic, social and economic injustices of over 100 years of colonial rule.

“But now the chickens are coming home to roost for South Africa.”

The writer found it sad that ANC Youth League president Julius Malema's call for redistribution of wealth was being "myopically dismissed by the whites in South Africa as madness on the part of Cde Malema".

"Yet his frustrations are widely shared across South Africa. Ominously, they point to the struggles for the control of resources that will soon be visiting that country."

Seemingly our comrades in Zimbabwe know more than most of us about what is in the offing in this country.

Recently I had a long discussion with my friend who is an ANC member. He confirmed to me that the wagon was on gear now. When I asked what he meant he alluded to Malema’s visit to Zimbabwe and rambled about China being the only ancient civilization in human history to have re-emerged as a major force in the world. “Africa is on that path.”

This got me thinking about China as the model of modern development.

To justify its monopoly on power, the Chinese’s Communist Party promised and delivered on constant economic growth. There was a lot of talk about patriotism—the Chinese version of the ideology of revolution when they want to be vague or hide something; as Democratic Revolution Movement is ours here.

Supporting the government, alias the Communist Party, is a patriotic act in China, and criticism of it is unpatriotic or, if done by a foreigner, is anti-Chinese. Of Big brother prefers the language of counter-revolutionary here; after our development is through the Soviet bloc, not the cultural veil for tragic politics that was Maoism.

Some people now in China, especially the educated and middle class live in extreme affluence, with a certain cosmopolitan style a Cape Townan suburban snob might find enviable. Capitalists are doing all right in post-1989 China. There’s money to be made, a lot of it, that is if you belong to a right clique, or are connected to the communist party pedigree; or if you rely on your own innovation you must know how to keep your mouth shut and “play the game”, as my friend put when trying to convince me to join their department.

I told my friend I don’t know to be anything else except myself, which is what mostly gets me into trouble. He told me I didn’t have to be shut up about my views; I just need to trim them to fit a bigger scheme of things. When I asked what was the bigger scheme of things he became evasive.

But I must give it to him, he seemed to have thought things through than I had suspected initially; and indeed China seem most likely to be their best model. I just wonder where would they find the technocrats to do all the work when they seem bent on chasing the best brains out of their organisation, or country for that matter. I don’t see Juju and his company as the technocratic types, and that is the group which should have been groomed and educated about a decade ago. They now should have been ready to take the positions of technical skill an interventionist state requires. Juju’s group prefers short-cuts, learning how grab, and they are not alone to blame, after all big brother has never really took the idea of development, educational and otherwise, too seriously. Unfortunately, as China can now boast, it is the only real thing that will turn things around. Perhaps Juju and his cabals should be sending students to study in China, late is better than never.

As it look now we would be in the near future then be ruled with a velvet glove when we behave, and an iron fist for those who refuse to “play the game”—no nice things for them, in Juju’s language.

There’s a lot of talk about Chinese people, especially in the rural areas, not being ready for democracy, that it may create chaos and mess. My understanding is that democracy is a messy thing because it is an aggregation of views and opinion to find the most popular. Ordinary people too, ignorant or otherwise, should have as much control over decision making of who must govern them, or how the national resources should be distributed. Of course this strikes at the heart of the authoritarianism, hence the talks of the party knowing what’s best for its people.

Dressing up authoritarianism by talks of patriotism or counter-revolutionarism does not hide the fact that you want people to subordinate their freedom. Others dress this subordination in cloaks of liberal grandeur like development. Why are modern parties so bent afraid of democracy and like to equate it with obedience rather than participation on the basis of equality? I don’t know. The best I can do perhaps is to end this with a quotation from Lasch as hear him scream on my head:

The people are busy–I’ve spent a lot of time around them. I’ve got a pretty good feel for this. Their jobs suck and they’re exhausted. When they get it together to do something amazing like build the CIO or create the Civil Rights movement, it’s a mitzvah composed of all kinds of things, especially incredibly tenacious, labor intensive organizing ... Some of them are wonderful, and some of them are awful, and most of them are in between–kind of like everybody else…. The world has always been a scary place, and it’s always been the fit though few who have undertaken to make stuff better. And, over time, they pick up some fellow travelers, and, oddly enough, things do get better.”

Others may see it strange that I’m very much interested in Lasch, but I think he was “attempt to provide a pedigree for a more radical, more democratic–and more consistent–brand of cultural conservatism,” one that combined economic leveling with traditional and local ways of life.

Things do get better; no thanks to any political party, only because people know exactly what is good for them and when. I trust the people, especially the ignorant ones because there’s far more wisdom sometimes in being ignorant than being clever. I distrust clever people, especially those with a political agenda.



Oh, I must go to sleep now. Paris has gone to sleep, grown tired of waiting for his mom who has just sms me that she’s just been awarded a crown of being the sexiest woman at Hout Bay—and women in Hout Bay are sexy, in an underrated kind of way that I like.

There’s growing wind, threatening to rock the boat. Outside the sea is dark, oily dark imposing a sense of mystery on things.

Lionel Trilling once quoted Charles Péguy’s memorable adage in the Preface to The Liberal Imagination—“everything begins in mystery and ends in politics.”
Perhaps; but everything that ends in politics must eventually return to mystery, or tumble into irrelevance. The times! The times!

The Dangling man

As I read media reports of the president of the ANCYL going to Mugabe’s Zimbabwe to "study" and "learn" about nationalization from the failed state of Zimbabwe? [Zimbabwe, the classic case study of how to run a once thriving nation into the ground]. I’m thinking what a quick learning boy. After all birds of the same feather naturally flock together. He can export and import more politics of factionalism and hatred.

Also I hear the nazists leader of the AWB is dead, from the hand he refused to feed.

With all this I’m reminded of the biblical tail titled ‘the prodigal son’, where a son demands his inheritance from his father and go squander it with harlots and drunkards only to realise later on his left with nothing and forced to feed with swines.

That’s the feeling I get when I look to the new generations of the likes of Julius Malema, who never really fought for the fruits of liberation they’ve inherited. Like the prodigal son they’re spending its capital on hooliganism they call the revolution.

Most people are baffled as how is it possible that such an obvious buffoon can get away with so much and with seeming impunity. Well, I’m not really surprised, even pygmies, when standing on the shoulders of giants can destroy the vision of the nation, or at least block its view. What is needed is for those who can see through the internal light to nuture and share with others until the whole nation can see.

For those of us who grew up in the township during the early eighties are now again getting a sense of dejavu, of having been here before. We remember how the criminals hijacked the liberation struggle then for their ends, until our communities, through organisations like United Democratic Front and Black Conscious Movement, stood up to reclaim back their communities.

Then too the criminals and opportunists spoke the language of populists and liberation, but people eventually saw through them. The same is happening now. Nothing will change until we all become the change we want to see.

The best way to counteract the bad effects of populism, lawlessness and the eventual breakdown of the constitutionalist balance is not to be part of it. To be an example. Changing things is a myth where the rot has settled, the transparent bias in that case is always towards greater and deeper decay.

It is getting clear now that the best of what has been thought and said in the world is being lost to the vulgar, unfeeling, greedy, virtueless world of commerce, consumerism and politics. Of course in Malema’s suedo revolutionary language it called making history. They confuse history with dust raising.

History is never plotted, and its ramifications are complex. It might appear as though unfolding chaotically in a given political but when you dig deeper you see a strata of order in both its public and personal dimensions.

The chaos of history has its own galvanizing potential. Though seemingly prone to the vain it tends to be resistant to triumphal vulgarism and political chauvinism in the end. Perhaps it is of our advantage that the likes of Malema never realise this until it is too late for them. Their type can only learn against the rock and when they are no longer in the pedestal they fluked with shenanigans.

Helen has come in now. I must move away from this sterile topic and hard desk to try and recapture what is, at this stage, best about our lives. [We’re going to lunch at Noerdhoek, driving through the enchanting Chapman’s Peak. Isn’t it wonderful that we are still able to delve into the world's ordinary enchantment even under conditions of emotional intensity?

When I sat at this desk I was trying to catch the creative vein, rediscover my love for storytelling but was led astray by the flattening narrative of our time and a spike of emotional intensity as watch my country descend slowly into … (ah come on, these are no times to be despondent but to confront the strictures of our era with courage. I know enough about the history of this country to know this kind of things happens all the time, and no matter how long we dangle on the abyss we always find our way back].

I’ll have that glass of Sauvignon Blanc now, La Motte to be specific; after all I’m by now complete bourgeoisie.

Lies, damned lies, and statistics

Lies, damned lies, and statistics

By
Mphuthumi Ntabeni

ABSA stadium in East London, where the African National Congress (ANC) celebrated its 97th anniversary the and launch of its manifesto for the 2009 national elections last week is almost a backyard of my home. I’ll not get into the insufferable noise, the street drunkenness, reckless driving, and dirt such things generate. My mother, a now wavering supporter of the ANC, had serious issues with it though, threatening to tip over her scales against the organisation. “The rowdiness of it all”; her words.

As I went to the ABSA stadium I was listening to Bob Dylans’ song; Desolation Row: ‘They’re selling postcards of the hanging. / They’re painting the passports brown [yellow]. / The beauty palour is filled with sailors [politicians]. / The circus is in town . . .’ I was hoping against experience to hear something fresh, and battling with cynicism, thinking there must be better things to do with one’s holiday than this; ‘[E]verbody is either making love, or else expecting rain. . .’

I had noticed an interesting, even worrying, turn in the ANC campaign; the use of commodity market strategies for the election campaign. [The young lady with flowing braids—mimicking Vodacom—in a consumption pose: My ANC! ]The manufacturing of popular will does not get more narcissist than personalized commercialisation, I thought. The idea, I suppose, is to launch into the subconscious the idea of the ANC as not just a political party but a way of life to be consumed as a cultural statement, hints of suaveness and all. The ANC too now once to be part of modern culture.

The staduim was painted yellow with ANC supporters in jovial mood, ferried for free from all corners of the country. As I sat behind myriads of these t-shirts I was amazed at the irony written at their backs: Better education, health, safety and security, jobs for all, social development. They’re advertising their failures. These are the areas the ANC has proven to be shabby, to say the least. The scandolous audacity of it! I thought. ‘They all play the penny whistle. You can hear them blow; if you lean your head out, far enough from desolation row . . .’ The whole thing looked more like a stock-in-trade of some low comedy whose punch line I didn’t get.

Then came the speeches; the usual recycled self-satisfied fealty bosh and romanticized version of our history, tilting towards revolutionary heroism that lacks proper understanding of the mechanics of our national inherited history. Jacob Zuma (JZ) lacked depth, as usual. Even his leitmotif, umshini wam, seemed to have lost its spark, sounding stale and contrived. Then, in tradition of the organisation, he read the statistics of ANC’s achievements, bringing to mind what Hilaire Belloc wrote; ‘Statistics are the triumph of the quantitative method, and the quantitative method is the victory of sterility and death.’ Mark Twain put it more succinctly in the sentence (wrongly attributed to Disraeli sometimes) I used as a title of this article.

JZ spoonfeeded the masses with optimism, taking his authority from reading birds intensines; poisoned them, in totured self-confidence, with hopes of rooting out corruption, something he has no moral authority over. The masses got distracted, not paying much attention after the automaton chants. With ill equipped habits of culture, nostalgia for the past, they stood no chance to grasp the glaring truths. Overdetermined into redundancy by rehearsed political habits they’ve yet to unshackle themselves from political manipulations. You could sense their human spirit getting resteless, straining to go beyond emotional attachments of the past.

More than any other time I was convinced that attending ANC rallies is a waste of time, and subjecting oneself to verbal wasteland. Only people with vested interests can endure it, after all, gold has no smell and hungry stomachs no noses. Once again though, I doffed my hat to the ‘ill fed, ill housed and ill clothed masses’ for the resilence of their intoxicated hopes in dubious claims of blatant propaganda. ‘And nobody ever thinks too much, about desolation row . . .’

I felt dizzy and tired with going in circles on the fetish ANC wagon that’s stagnated on nostalgia. I guess that makes me elitist. So be it. Having drained my ungratified faculty of curiosity , and in grips of aggressive cynicism, I left before it became apparent I was counter revolutionary. ‘Praise be to Nero’s Neptune; the Titanic sails at dawn. Everybody is shouting, whose side are you on . . . I got your letters yesterday, about the time the dawn’ broke. When you asked how I was doing; was that somekind of joke? All these people you mention; yes I know them, they’re quite lame . . .’ The folk singer echoed in my ears.

Feel For Me a Brimming Bowl

Recently I attended a friend’s wedding held at Hermanus outside Cape Town. He’s the closest thing I have to a best friend. The following week he was leaving for the US to further his studies in one of the Ivy League education institutions. We were together at varsity in Johannesburg during the dying years of the eighties and early nineties, probably the most seminal years in the beginnings of our country’s democracy.

We sat together at the resort’s veranda watching whales in the moribund hours after the reception. It was a poignantly beautiful site that brought to mind something Keats said about a line in Spenser’s poem; “what an image that is—‘sea-shouldering whales!’ It sounds like something out of Homer, doesn’t it? Remarked my friend. The felicity of language and image has been both our passion. We sat back with our drinks, like whales in shallow waters, feeling the political weight of parting billows on our shoulders—the president of the republic had just been recalled by the ruling party under unsatisfactory conditions.

I think I understand now why you allowed your party membership to lapse after the likes of Mandelas were released; said he after a while (Though I had not been an official member of the African National Congress I still felt it to be my political home). Up till then he had been working in the national legislator. The recall of president Mbeki convinced him it was time to move on. We recalled how only more than a decade ago we brimmed with hope because we had worked ourselves into national pride. We wanted to be part of the brick and mortar of the new, brighter, future for our country. Now we were no longer feeling the spark that fired that pride. What had gone wrong?

We talked long about radical incongruities that cripple our national pride. It’s just politics, said I in the end, knowing very well that it was exactly what it was not. You see, to us at least, it was never about politics, but dreams of what the ancient Greeks called nomoi; the training of citizen for common good. To learn state laws—law here does not only concern regulating relations between people and their affairs, but formative creative agent aimed at instilling virtue of excellence in citizen-body. We thought we would be part of building blocks to instill culture of intelligence and modesty; paths of thoughts and practices inspired by democratic, human dignity and moral good.

We thought we could use politics to recover the African wellspring which was vandalised by the invidious experience of colonialism and apartheid. We meant to reverse the self-imposed loss of road markers, blood memory and subconscious mental habits of our people, so as to recover by excavation our indigenous ways. In short, we thought we would reinvest the notion of humanities with ubuntu. We believed the time had come for Africa to rediscover the expression of her soul, conceptualised by what Greeks termed paideia. [Paideia is a general education dating from the mid–fifth century BC, designed to prepare young men for active citizenship. It was further developed in the Roman notion of humanitas, set forth in Cicero’s De Oratore (55 BC). The Early Church Fathers, notably St. Augustine, developed it into a program of Christian education, built around the study of grammar, rhetoric, poetry, history, and moral philosophy.] We saw ourselves as agents of that in our country.

I mention all this to highlight the fact that, for us, it was never about politics, but about the refinement of our sentiments and moral sensibilities. When you disregard that, you kill the spark of national pride. We bought, lock, stock and barrel, into the idea of African Renaissance, the assimilation of creative energies from different cultural backgrounds and recovery of classical traditions, infused with penetrating light of what is best in all times. The eccentricities of the present ANC administration pour water into that spark. We found ourselves caught between our beliefs and their erratic behaviour, which we felt no longer correlates with our values and beliefs.

We needed a new home, a consistent political party that must stand outside the lure of false politicking. We need leaders that’ll take seriously the practice of our democracy, moral imperatives, social and economic justice. Who share our social view and moral principles. Who’ll not just give symbolic self-expression to them, readily disregard in promotion of group interest, or sacrifice to party interests. That is why we now see Cope (Congress for the People) as the new promise for our aspirations.
*
The bride came fetching her groom for their first married night. Our eyes filled with tears; voices faltered. It might be a long time before we see each other again. “I always make an awkward bow.” The poet assisted. “Fill for me a brimming bowl.” Said I as they left. My thoughts mounted on stilts and cleaved on the mystical air of mournful whale cries. In the stillness of my heart I wished all of them joy in their mating season. What’s that Zakes Mda starts his book of similar title with: ‘The sea is bleeding from the scars of HarSaul . . .’ Ah, ja! The ancient sea is accusing the precocity of things.

Smoke and Mirrors

I was seated on the couch, trying unique ways and fresh angles to write about Women’s Day we celebrated on the 9th August. I thought of writing about the usual stuff; empowerment of women and all, but decided against it. Something that kept nagging my mind is how we live in real contradiction to our ideals. I mean everybody seem to agree that uxorial husbands are an ideal; equal representation for women is ideal; and responsible, if not doting, parents are ideal. Yet we live the opposite of these things, more like doppelgängers of what’s best in us.

Then I came a picture of a beautiful near-naked female body on a foreign magazine. She wore nothing but a bra, and hid her pelvic area, which I took to imply vagina, with a designer hand bag that she was advertising. Her eyes were cut from the picture. I thought they think of everything, because, surely, to use as a commodity a thing like sex (its not sensuality), you’ve to hide your eyes, from your soul. It was titled; Lesson 84: lead him to temptation. Is that what women’s liberation has amounted to, I found myself asking?

I was lost in such thoughts when my daughter, who’s nine, surprised me with a demand for a long mirror for her room—I must reveal, for proper understanding, that the advert was posed as though it was a mirror image. I was not sure what brought that about but could sense trouble in the offing. What’s wrong with the ones you have, I asked, trying to sound casual. I can’t see whole of myself on them, was her answer as she disappeared to her room again. She left me in confused contemplation. I stood to spy what she was up to and found her sitting in bed, combing Ami (her favourite doll). I turned back with my confusion intensified.

I’ve lived with my daughter since she was nine months old. My sisters, whom we visit frequently, make up for the female influence she needs in her life. I suppose, to be fair, not having long mirrors must be a serious drag for growing girls. On the other side I wondered why didn’t I have long mirrors, dressing table mirrors, and such things one finds on modern homes these days. Do I not like looking at myself? I recalled how uncomfortable I feel when I see my reflection on shop windows when walking city pavements—they make me seem humped. The scientific explanation of refractions and all does not help my archaic sense of self, which, I suppose, is still operating on cave man instinct embodied deep in my genetic code.

The only time I really look at myself on the mirror, since you asked, is when I go to the bathroom at parties or nightclubs, to measure how soused am I. That’s just about it, if shaving does not count. I don’t look at myself when I comb, not that I’m less narcissist than your average, less say GQ guy. It’s a practice forced in me by Catholic boarding school indigent upbringing. I suppose there’s also a bit of delusion of grandeur in supposing physical reflection is not as important as inner self-reflection. I much prefer the ‘know thy self’ and the rest of now unfashionable philhellene heebie-jeebies.

Before the mirror incident, I was sure my daughter was growing along my trends—choosing soccer at school, sleeping with miniature Ferraris next to her dolls—you know, things that make daddy-mom proud. Now it looks like I might have overestimated my influence on her. Now I notice her stopping over cosmetic section and feel, in my guts, trouble approaching. Of course there’s a possibility I’m just blowing the whole thing out of proportion. Somebody please say I’m blowing it out of proportion! Meantime I’m looking for a mirror, preferable with a pink frame; long enough to cover the height of a nine year old until she’s at least eighteen.

For those of you wondering why I’m not married at the good side of forty. Here’s the thing. When I was in Std 6, now Grade 8; we read a book where a guy chopped his wife and two children (who were actually his father’s but was suppose to acknowledge as his according to the Xhosa custom of those times) with an axe. When asked why, he kept saying: Buzani kuBawo! [Ask my father!]. I’ve never really recovered from that tragic story. I feel abused. You can tell Oprah that. I’m prepared to produce on-demand-screen saccharine tears to puff my pillow. I’ll even write a memoir of aggrievement if she promises to feature it on her show.

Madiba!!! (Nelson Mandela is 90)

I recently found myself in a rather animated conversation as we watched on television Nelson Mandela’s 90th Birthday Bash held in London, England. The bone of contention involved Mandela’s legacy in Africa. Actually I had started the argument by recalling how once when I was still a varsity student in Jo’burg I met my Madiaba on my way to a vending machine in mid (must have been mid because I remember the night as being quite cold) of 1992.
While passing the long deserted passage through the main entrance of Great Hall to Senate House, where the vending machines were, I was suddenly shoved aside by rude gigantic, mostly white men, in black suites. Before I was able to realise what was happening Madiba came to view. He had apparently noticed how the men had rudely shoved me out of the way. He broke with the procession, extended his hand in greeting to me. I just froze, afraid the security men might not allow it.
“Hallow young man. What is your name?” He said in that hoarse, almost shrill voice of his. I was dumbfounded. He asked me also what I was studying, and when I told him he said in conclusion. “Good! The country needs people to build this country.” The encounter must have lasted less than 20 seconds but I never forgot it. Unfortunately for my ego, none of my friends believed me when I told them I had just met Mandela. I don’t know, but for some reason I felt distant from them and no longer in need to prove myself after.
As I was saying, the argument with my friends was about how black people, especially in Africa, respect the likes of Kwame Nkrumah, Aimé Césaire, Julius Nyerere, Thabo Mbeki, even Robert Mugabe more. The trend was mentioning presidents who happened to be intellectuals. But where did their intellectualism lead us? I pointed to the mess that drove Ghana into Nkrumah’s assignation and military coup after another. I recalled what happened in Tanzania when Ujama failed. Say nothing of present Zimbabwe. In conclusion I said I prefer presidents who are leaders than visionaries. Visionaries tend to be blind to anything outside their vision, and usually ruthless in pursuing their vision.
“What has Mandela done since he came out of jail.” One of my friends asked. “We all know he was just a ceremonious president, with Zizi (T. Mbeki) playing his prime minister and running the show.” He nearly got me there. I recalled how in 1990 we travelled from Jo’burg to Cape Town to listen to Madiba’s first speech since coming out of jail. All our difficult lives in the township we had idealised the moment of Mandela’s coming out of jail as the day of our liberty. We thought he would come sounding trumpet blast with explosive wisdom from all the years he (they) spent in contemplation of our future in jail. To say his speech leaved much to be desired that day is to be respectful. I was awfully disappointed.
But what is Mandela’s legacy?
For me it is seeing a helpless person being shoved around and taking time to reassure them that they matter. It is not intellectualising or moralizing about this or that, but having a heart in a right place, and inviting others to share in the aura of goodness by spontaneous generosity. It is not the aesthetic pleasure of philosophical musing, but life given meaning by ability to forgive, to extend your hand even to your enemies and shame them by goodness if need be. When your heart is in the wrong place, all the education you acquire affords nothing, except you end up being a contradiction even to your own mind.
I’m lucky enough to come from a (African) culture that values what’s in your heart more than what’s in your head. My head has been trained in Western education—I’ll admit to regarding it as a better way of living an authenticity life until, with maturity, I became appalled by some of its falsified posturing and too individualist way of life masquerading as enlightenment. I’ve since strived to liberate my mind both from Western excesses and African atavistic oppressions.
My friend says my choosing Madiba as my best African leader of all time is a symptom of having fallen for ‘white trickery’, what he termed ‘Mandela Cult’. They’ve claimed him away from us. I do not mind that if it is our goodness they’ve claimed. I get the feeling that my friend confuses eloquence with truth. I’ve read enough to discover how sometimes learned men use charm of elegantly arranged words to collapse truth to the fascination superficial charisma; that used to be called sowing silk over sackcloth. I’ll rather be a priest in the Madiba oracle than a malleable automaton in quibbling visions that loose their saltiness with passing years.
Ngxatsho ke tata uMadiba, siyabulela, for all you’ve given up for the freedom of all of us. Now at last, I too, am able to extend my hand to you.
Fourscore and ten, you are very strong tata. But then again the lime quarries of Robben Island knew that already when they could not prevail over you. Ahh! Dalibhunga!!! Madiba omhle!

Happy birthday my dear angel daughter.

08/06/2008 is Loza's 9th birthday. I can't beleive how quickly time passes. It is almost a decade since she's come into my life. Feels only like yesterday I watched her tiny body at hospital in Port Elizabeth. Love has happened since.

Happy birthday my dear angel daughter. May you find the fulfilment you seek in life!