The Loadshedding Monologues
Loadshedding is a national crisis that, although faltering on its promise to tank the economy, directly affects the daily lives of South Africans.
From the escalators turned big-step staircases at Cavendish, the shut-down grill at Nandos in Rondebosch and the closed-early Jerry's in Obz, to robots turned four-way stops, darkened highways, early/late dinners and the rush to the kettle, loadshedding leaves us in constant uncertainty.
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The Loadshedding Monologues is a poetry collection attempting to capture and preserve these critical everyday moments in our country's history, and to give you something to read in daily darkness. 100 physical copies were printed, sealed and distributed across Cape Town.
It also invites you to write your own stories because, as you will see, that much we owe to each other.
What We Owe to Each Other
Emotional identification
Is the great human feat,
To know your heartbeat
By placing a hand
To my chest,
To cry your tears
From my eyes.
Stories of others,
Stories of mine.
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We hold hands through words,
Warnings
And prayer;
Promises,
Wages
And jeer—
Poke fun and preserve
The Good
Through tales of the Great.
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Myth or folktale
Or recollection,
The mind carves new caves
To rebuild forts of the unseen
And call it memory.
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Stories are sinking souls,
Kept alive by half-burnt coals
Of passion, of desperation,
With an urge to bestow
Lessons or learnings
From you to me—
That much we owe to each other.
Black Gold
Nights by candlelight,
By force,
Why can’t we have power,
Mama?
They stole it,
I want to say,
But who is they
And what is it?
Power, perhaps.
A stronghold
Or a source.
A steadfast safety net
Stitched to your couch.
But ours burnt
In gas canister flames
Or drowned
In floods.
The coals were wet,
They say,
And diesel is expensive.
Stones received today
Instead of
Black gold.
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Ask Baba when he comes,
I say,
Home from the mine
If he can still breathe
Or speak
Outside of a desperate
Unionised plea:
Jobs please.
And life too—
Smoke kills
And the sky is blue.
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We sit in the dark,
Watching the clock,
Listening carefully—
Not an excuse to unwind,
Not a detox or a period-piece dinner.
There is no dining table
But we are sitting ducks.
November Nights in the Cape
Tuesdays are for
2 for 1 pizzas
At Ferdinando’s in Obz,
Loadshedding from
Ten to twelve,
The World Cup games
With the buzz
Of an invertor.
Summer nights
On the eighth floor,
Smothered in
A sweeping fog,
Wrapped up as a city
For Christmas.
The lights are on
At Adderley Street,
Blinking reindeers
And a revolving Protea.
The traffic stops
Still
After eight-thirty,
Dark enough to get lost
In twinkling break lights.
The sea seems black,
A mirror of the sky
With ships for stars,
Two or three,
In the distance,
Waiting for harbour space.
The Russian billionaire yacht,
Helipad and all,
Never made it to the Cape Coast.
Still we have not condemned
The Great Dictator
And Ukraine sits
In darkness
Not for two hours at a time
But
Always.
And we stand in
Symbolic, cellphonic,
Silent solidarity.
What a Great Shame.
When People (Couldn't) Zol
Three years since
The first family meeting,
The week of grace,
The rush for toilet paper
And a month’s-worth of food.
Long lines for taxis,
Crashing airline websites
R5 000 bus fares—
Stranded students.
A party outside Tugwell,
The virus killed our responsibilities
Before our neighbours.
Back from Italy,
man and wife
arrive at King Shaka,
All hell breaks loose.
In a roundabout
Repressed way,
The Ferrari fanbase returns
At Foresters
To cheer for Max
Or anyone but Lewis.
Zuma stands trial
And Durban falls to its knees.
His ex-wife, name still intact, cuts off our limbs:
You cannot smoke,
You cannot stand;
You cannot roll
But NDZ can
In Rands of desperate, fidgety fingers.
The Elon Eon
The world’s first
Almost-trillionaire
Went to Pretoria Boys.
He will live
On Mars
Before we
Can watch
SONA.
Now, it's your turn.
As South Africans in a time of crisis, it's important we band together. As a global community caught up in cellphones and shiny things, it's important we return to the creative world. By candlelight or by Magnito, by pen and paper or by keyboard, The Loadshedding Monologues invites you to try your hand at historiography. How do we talk to the future about the now? What would you tell the children (or AI babies) to come?
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Feel free to send them to me, to keep them to yourself or to share them at the next family dinner. I'm guaranteed you will surprise yourself.