May 2018
By Shameelah Khan
In this Issue of Odd Magazine, the theme Nostalgia was selected. This editor’s note was not an easy one, so I had asked a friend for advice on how best to approach a topic like this. As always, her advice had soothed me, “Just write nostalgia- as you have your whole life.”
This is me- writing Nostalgia
As I have
My whole life
The shadow that still creeps up to my bedside, no matter how old I am, I hide under the sheets replaying many gruesome scenes, seeking protection under my sheets. The sheets of solace are met with my childhood meals I long for on long trips, far away from my Mother’s house. The house that I associate to my childhood and warm smells like brewed tea, macaroni and cheese, toast in the mornings, chicken akni on a Sunday and roast. That freshly marinated roast is met with my dangling feet walking to my cousin’s house, up the road, in December when we played. I love that we played. Stuck in the mud, paper dolls, cops and robbers and house-house. That house-house is met with Primary school and memories of E.P Baumann and the girls I grew up with. Most of them are now married, some with children. Remember when we were children. We had dreams hidden in a tree. We even had magical keys. It opened for us a world to create stories and then I knew, the moon had a grip on us and we danced throughout those years. Those years were met by granadilla ice creams at the Zoo and trips to Gold Reef City. Candyfloss on a stick and the teacups that made me throw up. The waterlog and a one day we’d be able to ride the Anaconda. The roller coaster was met by that one day. The feeling of wind hitting between my teeth, crunching my stomach, clutching the seat. The seat was met by a date beside me. Those dates were met by many more heartbreaks. But then- real love. Real love is met by family functions and friendships that lasted. Friendships that lasted and late night outs. My sister and slow music against a backdrop of stars. The first time drinking. Drinking and smoking were met by nights of depression. Clutching to writing and wanting to tell the stories I was forgetting. Then praying. Praying and forgetting was met by memories that were still existing. I hurt myself sometimes. I hurt them most times. Most times were my best times. My best times were high school times. The time my name was known. The time I did my most growing. My most growing was met with more when I furthered my learning. Learning is met with critique and discursive formation. Hall, Hooks, Foucault and Fanon. Fanon was met with more. Cinema. My cinema was met with identity-making. The clowning in Paljas, The French Wave and then Africa. Africa is met with my country’s racism and the racism I have to always remember. South Africa. I am alone and when I am alone, I am met by the shadow that still creeps up to my bedside, no matter how old I am, I hide under the sheets replaying many gruesome scenes, seeking protection under my sheets- the sheets of solace is met with the childhood meals I long for on long trips, far away from my Mother’s house.
I wish you all a life worth remembering, no matter how lonely, lost or loved it may be.
You write it
As you have your whole life….
With Much Appreciation,
The Odd Team
In this issue:
Photo-series:
Odd Artist of the Month: Kgaugelo Rakgwale
Nostalgia – A Place I know – Luthfiyyah Rahman
Narrative Essay:
What Dreams May Come – Johara Khan
Poetry:
If Poetry was seduced – Shameelah Khan
Tea – Shameelah Khan
Sunday Mornings – Tshepo Molefe
Requiem – Juwayriya Bemath
Absolving Absolution – Emma Michelle Porter
The Cackle of the ghost – Nomthandazo Nxabela
Short Story:
Coffee – Sarah Leck
