Huda - Rightly Guided

I'm not sure that we truly take into account the wonders of birthing until a child is cradled in our arms. Tiny perfection exists in quite that way: in the form of a newborn. Huda, my newest niece, was born after much contemplation at 16h51 pm on Thursday, 24 Feb. A daughter for Sarfaraaz and Amina, and a baby cousin sister for Madeeha and Mustafa, the reason I say 'after much contemplation' is because Amina carried to full term (40 weeks) and experienced a long 16 hour labour with immense effort from brave mum and extremely courageous baby girl. Also, it did seem as though baby was contemplating her entry into the world.
And so she finally made her arrival amid two sets of thrilled grandparents, and of course parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and extended family members all in all.

She's beautiful What else can I say? Or need I even?
God is Great.

And another fabulous February person has arrived! :D

xoxo

Free imaginings

The way we live our life seems to be a function of our imagination. We imagine that we are at a certain point, measured only by our relative perceptions. And we make our way along a path that we deem is wrought with difficulty or strewn with rose petals, often to our own detriment or perhaps a precursor to little bouts of disappointment and some level of joy upon discovering that we have far exceeded our own expectations.

So. Most of all, the relevance of life is measured by how we prioritize matters, beliefs, people and things in general. How deeply we felt something, only to have it washed aside in a moment of disparate agitation, speaks much of the frivolity with which we might splash emotion or withhold it, even.

Above all else is the dire need to foster this growing, thriving fuel of imagination.
It's the foundation for everything that we delve in, the inspired gas of our oblivion, the grease on the the wheels that pull a cart of memories and the glue that holds us together in times of trauma and distress.

Imagine a world without this essential element?

;)

Beautiful things; precious moments...

I've been back in Durban almost a fortnight, counting the beauty, the days of good and wondrous encounters, the love of life and the blessing of being around my maternal grandmother. I bask in the sunlight of her spirit. Sitting in her presence is a quenching for my soul. I drink on, satiated.

And then I drink more of her loveliness.

There's a varied peace in this...

I measure my life in milestones. Not timelines, but in connectivity with loved ones, proximity to them. Haji'ani Ma, my maternal grandmother, is my measure for all these things.

I have noted various stages along her life path. A strong and resolute woman, but also a fragile and lovely being. She brought up her two daughters after being widowed at the age of 39. And I was born before her 50th birthday; to her eldest daughter, her first grandchild.

The cream over her milk, as she likes to say of us grandchildren.

She will be 82 this week.

Holding her delicate body in my arms, feels like I'm hugging a dream.

I already know that a part of her is looking onward to higher places.

And a part of her remains here, with us. Counting our successes, sharing our smiles. A haze of the fantastical forever lingers. Reality beeps to the beat of our hearts. Mortality of the body overshadows immortality of spirit, being, a lifetime of dreams realised, hopes dashed, joys shared, loss made visible.

Instead of counting the days, I want to celebrate the precious moments. One at a time.

Cape Town: Fiddunya hassanatau (The beauty of this world)

Being in Cape Town taught me a few good things. One, that writing should never be taken for granted, and two, that the low literacy levels in our country will always mean that the work of a wordsmith will always be driven by the need to engage readers. To really create in them a thirst for reading. And to make these readables available and accessible in more ways than one; so its not only about learning how to read, but about creating a culture of reading. And so that reading is also an affordable pass-time. A new initiative by Zukiswa Wanner of 'Madams' fame, called ReadSA is engrossed in this project in many ways.

The nose to grindstone image refers.

Cape Town was also a time of rejuvenation for me. I was happy to be plugged into all that the city had to offer me: the smell of the ocean, the embrace of glorious Table Mountain, which served as a backdrop to the launch of M4K, and the throng of people that I had the delight of coming into contact with over the three days that I was there. It started off on flight. I left Johannesburg at 6:55am Saturday morning. I arrived in Cape Town to meet a group of amazing ladies for breakfast at Origins cafe.
Nielfa, Ayesha, Saarah, Nisrien, Saberah, Haseena and Maryam were my coffee companions; a superb start to a riveting weekend.

With this lovely lot, I got to see the District Six Museum, and the Planetarium. Also got to see the Gardens. Walked by the National Library, and planted myself outside the Slave Lodge until I was whisked away to do some bookish things, and to check out the launch venue for the very first time (I went on a limb with this one! in tandum to my advisory team: Nielfa, Yaseen and Nazia for the most part) But to my absolute delight, this venue turned out to be the most incredible of venues I have used for any previous launches or other social engagements.

Meeting my darling friend Nazia Peer was a highlight for me. The fleeting time we had together was enough to tear at me for some time; the quality of which always makes up for the luxury of 'more' in life. Saturday night also turned out to be the dinner and musical in honour of a cousin whose engagement we were there to attend. Boys side party that lasted well into the late hours or early hours; whichever way you need to look at it. Needless to say, I met friends and family that I have not seen in a good while from as far as small towns around Polokwane, Nelspruit, etc. All colliding at this one festive spot in Cape Town or Rondebosch to be more precise.

And so it came to be that Sunday took us from the Waterfront, where we were staying, to the Athlone Civic Hall in attendance of the grand engagement celebrations. Speeches started at 11am and went on until about 1ish in time for grumbling bellies to be filled to satisfaction. Speakers included Ebrahim Rassool, MP and Mr A.Kays, whose work is cited in Daughters are Diamonds. Thanks to a feisty guest who recognised me as the author of DaD at some point, I was introduced to a friendly Kays saheb. Kays speech was short and sweet and bordered on the quest for Layla (girls name) to finding her Majnun (because he hadnt been told that my cousins name is Muaaz) Rather innovative of him in any event. And at first, I thought he might be named Qais, seeing as the original Majnun in the persian tale is called Qais.

And so I met Qais. Or rather, Mr.A.Kays. A wonderful gentleman. And a writer, of course. I also met Judge Siraj Desai and his lovely wife in that fuss of a moment. Desai declined the invitation to the launch due to prior arrangements to meet with Che Geuvara's daughter. Should that be censored information? He didnt say, and so here you go.

And almost time for the launch. I'm meeting people, still. Friends like Luq and more family... People who know me because of whose daughter I am. People who last saw me when I was just that tall (A wavering show of hands somewhere near my navel to show how diminished I may have been back then)

Brother wants to take a drive up to Micassa. Stepping out of the city for a bit. To subdued realness. A little bit of time travel, to visit Shaikh Yusuf. The views are breathtaking. I may have left a few breathes behind. A dirt road leads up the incline, and looking back in view of raised fortified walls, a curving road and some canons not-in-use, balancing still... the feeling overtakes me, that this is a moment in time that may not be measured by the date on my calendar, or on the blackberry in my bag. I relinquish the offending mechanism to the boot of our car and walk a little faster so as to catch up with the rest of the family.

The launch was nothing short of amazing. My noteworthy surprises were not over. Lubna, another of my dearest friends, stopped over between her delegatory role at the IPSA conference and on her way to her flight back home to Durban. She is officially the first purchaser of pre-launch Memoirs For Kimya at the Jozi Book Fair, and managed to make an appearance at the CT one too. The Bo-Kaap was an apt placement for the bookish event. I loved the energy generated there, the people I met, the quality of engagement, the view of Cape Town that twinkled below our feet in that raised glass box that was Bo-Kaap Kombuis... and the embrace of the mountain in the background. It is very difficult not to be affected by the incredulous flow of inspiration that fills this city. It is incredibly difficult not to fall in love with this place. I feel blessed to be able to visit again, with the launch of my new work, my celebration of soulful writing, and to plant the seed of writing inspiration in others, as I hope I have.


Monday held more for me; a call from Exclusives, Wordsworth books and a visit to District Six for books, books and more books. Also got to lunch with family, make serendipitous stops in town and outside a strangely familiar place called Bingo, before finding my way to a pretentious pavement coffee shop in wannabe bo-kaap to say my goodbyes to Nielfa, Yaseen, Nazia and Muhammad H, my charismatic programme director for Sunday's launch.

*Deep Breath required here for these goodbyes that Im never good with*

Here's to the joy of blessed moments, and knowing that life makes perfect sense being exactly where we are. Here's to Cape Town, until we meet again.

the lightness of being (apologies to kundera)

A year tends to bring numerous landmark events; personal ones, vocational ones, social, political, economic and faith-based ones. Some are steeped in elements of what is real and likely, while others are built on a foundation of fantasy, and collapse even before the hype and adrenalin has run it's course.

We live through the year over-dosing on temporary fixations, no doubt. The compulsive tendencies are fed to fullness on these tempting obsessions with the superficial, the random, and often the mundane. Twenty four hours can transform something that you cannot live without, into second rate trash.

I know these things about the infinite randomness of being, because admittedly, my life tends that way all too often. I hear the whirrrrr of the wheel as I run it like a good hamster. Whirr-whirrrr. I hear it.

And then that silver sliver of a new moon appears in the sky. Friendly faces peek out from behind the wood of trees made into solid doors. The gleam of delight is absurdly awesome; I am at once ensconced by it all, and lifted by the immense lightness of being a part of this communal life. Grace descends as silk. We are swathed in creamy layers of it, fragranced with a joy willed by the entry of this blessed month. It's the Holy month of Ramadaan. The almost Utopian goodness inherent in being human, reveals itself. Redundant excuses no longer make for a fitting diatribe. Devil may care only for a tether that renders evil useless somewhere on the ocean floor. Triumph is left to those who will embrace the rewards on offer; to those who will drink sweetness from ego's ultimate surrender.

There is, in surrender only one outcome: and that is the lightness of being.

Much love and blessings of an engaged surrender to one and all.
Ramadaan Kareem

adoration

I am not sure that we decide on 'objects' of adoration. Sure, there are always ways of being attracted to someone or forging close bonds and friendships that give you a sense of profound warmth, belonging and kinship. But adoration is a word that washes over me like a torrent of graceful summer rains; drenching and soothing and cleansing all at the same time. Adoration. How can you not love a word like that? :)

If you are not much of a wordlover as I am wont to be possessed by such a hobby as wordloving, then reflect on this at least: you will adore something or someone at least once in your life. You will love, yes. You will desire and yearn for and dream of and remember. But especially, you will adore, if only once in your life.

And that adoration will form the basis for almost all forms of reference. It will tell you about the object of your adoration. But it will thrill you to know that you have filled your being with the sweetness of having adored, and been engulfed for a time in adoring another. The great likelihood is that you will have been adored.

How lovely!

And you will carry with you that label of adoration; an unequivocal card of identity that will add to your resume of life a small sense of accomplishment, and even a reasonable explanation as to why the perfect heart that you were born with, might actually look a little tattered (and somewhat torn?). Just like an old book that has been read a few too many times; but is loved more now, in it's almost pitiable state, than it was when it first gleamed proudly atop a bookseller's shelf.

Aah, to adore and be adored is precisely what being alive is all about! And then to refer to it in fairytale form everytime the mind insists that such things are tricks of the fantasy writer's realm. The soul remembers. And the heart knows. Adoration is.

To Blog

Of course, just as it is with every motivated thing in life, there are reasons to blog. And there are reasons not to blog. And then there is just plain old non-reason. Not in a do-not-care kind of way, but rather in a just-not way.

Blogging is writing in a way that puts words out on a fluttering flag of sorts; a piece of fabric flaps in the wind, tied to a fickle post, without the guarantee that it will stay there, but in the meanwhile holding on for dear life. At some point it always tugs just beyond that sane disposition that we give it due. The force of pull and stay and the fight with wind and calm is an orchestra that brings both life and wear and tear to a simple piece of cloth, with strangely painted war art that gives it just a small token of belonging. Why? Because in symbols we find meaning and closeness. And a sense that this is home, in all its dreary plainness. And in all its wonder, too, of course.

I think that blogging is far more forgiving than the world of print media will ever be, and I think that short sentences are like drops of lemon on honey, made for flu-ish days. And I also think that grammatical errors are little rebellions from the artists creative pen. And of course, finally, long windy sentences are like taking a road trip and discovering oh-so-many wonderful things.

The scenic route is misunderstood. We should take more of them :)

Here's to loving being at home and here's to traveling to incredible new places and also to those long sentences that transport us between them. I missed them.

gifted

posts can be writ in so many flavours at different times of the day and night. i find that i write my most rambling posts at these oddish hours of the morning, when all i can hear is the baby from next door whimpering and then bawling its eyes...

my brother asked me something this evening at the supper table: he said, shafs how do u manage to stay awake at night? i didn't think too long for the reply: i am awake at night. in the same way that people are awake during the day. i need to re-form my sleep cycle, especially for the winter months. its freezing. anyway this writing manuscript and editing thing has got me turned around to a whole nocturnal living and i rarely make breakfast the first meal of the day. so the family has been complaining a bit. time to lose my night watch status and re-learn the art of normal sleep time. time to enjoy the gift of night-time sleep.

regarding gifts and being gifted, life lessons need be seen as gifts. that's what dear friend S just said to me. so in that case i consider myself lucky on many counts. im going to reach into my vault of 'gifts' every now and again just in case i forget to be grateful :)

this is an arb post. another one that is. i wonder if it is that im not quite taking this writing thing seriously. or that im relegating the SoApBoX to its original state of being the reflective Dear Diary space that it began as.

so many memories at this hall of famous words and nonsensical ramblings. so much mud flung alongside spray cans of wonder. so much more reasons documented in appreciation for myriad things. i feel a poem coming on. lol. or not.

currently listening to a madeenah nasheed. (little bro just gifted me with a new nasheed mp3-cd of some 300 items) i want to go there. to madeenah. where soul cravings speak a different language. and are thus quenched.

im content tonight. even though im rambling... im content.

Allah Knows...

10 or so things I may impart to spawn that might be born someday

1. Read. Starting with The Tales of Peter Rabbit, of course! It will kickstart your imagination.

2. Travel. Because the world is filled with fresh oyster and it's a large percentage of water (dnt want to quote just any ol' stat so this will have to do). And water quenches many Thirsts, of course! ;)

3. Paint. Crayons on walls if you must! Draw. Sketch. Create!

4. Be. Exactly who you are! And precisely who you want to be. Even if that changes every day :)

5. Sing. Because a free voice is a free soul. Even if it's a tune to the rememberance of your Creator.

6. Believe! There is a Higher Power and each living being will construe of such in their own way. There is no other way.

7. Love. Deeply. There is NO other way.

8. Smile. It's one way to share good energy with all around you. And its the least you can do for the wonders that surround us.

9. Breathe. Everything else is a bonus! :)

10. Imagine. The possibilities are endless as the grains of sand on all the beaches of the world.

11. Visit Aunty Kay. She's cool. Really! :)

12. And I think I shan't be the one to teach them how to count to ten. Or how to colour in. Because, as you can see, I rarely stay in between the lines. Sigh.

13. Sigh. Really, because sighs of life are a form of prayer (ibaadat).

I TAG WHOEVER READS THIS AND WANTS TO GIVE IT A GO. OH? AZRA? DD? SAALS? CRIMSON? LADY H? MJ? SEHER? KILLA? DL? NIKKI? SAF? ANYBLOGGIES AND BLOGGERS :)

seventh sense

"Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader

— not the fact that it is raining,

but the feeling of being rained upon."


-Anton Chekhov

on sheep and sleep

Of course I know that He has this Plan

and so I wade through the thick of it all

even in that moment of

an unavoidable sense of de ja vu

But then there's moments when I think

Let this be just a little different;

You know...

Seeing as it looks like

all my prayers

are being answered in one divine sweep!

Just a hint of something different;

a deviation from that pattern that drives me bonkers, almost!

And then it strikes:

that element of over-thinking things.

Aargh!

And in one Whoosh!

its all a chaotic

sludge of something

a bit dramatic.

Drama is good.

But not if you're trying

to get some

sleep.

As it is I rarely

sleep

on flight.

Sigh. So there's some catching up to do.

Hmm...

Maybe I should be doing grander things,

like counting sheep.

Backwards!

thriving on chaos

Thats what my dad just said about an hour ago when we were trundling past exhaust fumes that looked more solid than the rickshaws we were in. This is a city that thrives on chaos. He said it with a mixture of elation and concern. More of the former, knowing him. And so it is, Mumbai, a city on speed unlike any other; but really a mixed metaphor for so many lives trying just to survive in whatever which way. A throng of humanity that craves like a hungry child and then swallows you whole in a way that belies that felt innocence. A city of so many hues, its almost blinding to the naive eye.


It's almost 1am... Exec lounge closes in a bit...
Lets do this ramble later, okay/?

Ciao for now

S

fancy schmansy masquerade

Last night was far more of a jol than I imagined it would be. My brother's dear friend Jehanzeb 'Jzee' Bashir is getting married tonight. So we attended a fancy dress party last night in honour of wedding crowd events and such things. Grosvenor hall in Mayfair was turned into a mini gaming zone; yea it felt like you were in one of those arcade games with lots of characters flying and floating around. About a dozen or so people fluttered past making us feel like we were seated in the midst of a paintball venue, shooting at each other with life-like water-pistols, water-rifles (some in full army gear): few were recognisable especially because of the awesome disguises that they had played with. And the make-up art was divine, of course! A Spanish Princess accompanied her Matador partner; some princesses and fairies and elves dotted the place, and I played drama queen to the shade of pink alongside my sister-in-law in red she-devil regalia, her sister in pale white crowned princessy-ness, my brother as a London 'Bobby' policeman, cousin as a erm something... fancy-ish... and groom-to-be as a ruffian-come-jester-come-rap artiste. He got messed with water, flour and choice things that needed a few changes of clothes just like in some Bollywood song sequences. Somewhat surreal, mostly tonnes of fun... altogether feelgood. Here's wishing the new couple the best that life has to offer, grand dreams and choice health in the many years ahead, iA!

I still have spurts of party 'high' in my bloodstream. 100% natural. No additives. Pics aplenty. Some to follow.

Love and Mwahs,

The Drama Queen ;)

PIC UPDATE:

My Odyssey with George Bizos

I met George Bizos today. As my car inched its way into the basement of the building that houses his offices, Braam Fischer House, I played the rehearsed meeting over and over in my mind. My readings told me all I needed to know about the encounter I was about to make: the man needs very little introduction as the human rights lawyer of the apartheid struggle along with an incredible string of accolade that rolls off a tape measure of milestones and accomplishments. But I still didn't know, or have an idea of the man I was about to meet. Or the reception that awaited me.

Who is George Bizos? A Google search will tell you much of what you need to know... WhosWho@24.com. A face to face encounter will allow you to search the eyes of a kind soul, to see into the light of a gentleman of the world. I was at ease as he began his chat, informally, by his own admission, in an office walled with leather bound journals and archives of his professional nurturing. I asked about his work, his influence and his life. I got asked about my own. He spoke animatedly about Greek food, the Ottoman Empire and the apartheid struggle; he stood counsel on numerous cases concerning the Group Areas Act, as well as the infamous Rivonia Trial (under which Mandela and Sisulu and a host of others were tried for treason) and the Delmas Trial (under which e.g. Terror Lekota was tried).

Bizos at almost 81 is of fine memory and incredible spirit. His words deliberate, eyes twinkle with merriment as the stories from the past reveal themselves first to him, and then to me. I am mesmerized by the sheer energy of light that emanates as he speaks of past and present; digging memories of significant trials and tactics of the freedom struggle, and of his contemporaries, especially the protagonist of my biography, Maulvi IA Cachalia. He was a 'tactician', he repeated after each rendering of one or two examples of particular trials that they discussed and managed around the unjust legalities of the time.

Of course, as we moved on to talking about baclava, chai (my favourite; Bizos prefers kahve) and biryani (apparently the Greek word for it is very similar), appetites and memories were enticed to an anecdote about samoosa's in the Heidelberg trial, another example of the Group Area's Act tug-of-war.

The scribbling and doodling of his fountain pen (in Greek letters nonetheless) still follow my mind as he chatted with that shiny gleam in his eye. I can see the sparkle of eye mirrored in smile, still. I doodle too. It jogs memory and muse. The interview transcript will reveal all the technical details ('The machine must tell the story' - Bizos) for later analysis. For now I am basking in the measure of a morning spent on the ninth floor of a city centre office in Johannesburg, with a man who is most certainly an institution in his own right.

'S'


Books By George Bizos: No One To Blame? - In Pursuit Of Justice In South Africa (1998); and Odyssey to Freedom (2007)

deep down i know

Dear Diary...

Life is strange. So very strange. I am sitting with a box of smarties and I don't know what to do with it. Everything's smooth sailing with good views and no sea-sickness. If I want to touch the sky, it steps down on one knee and gives me a hand, asking me to dance. If I want to plant roses, the seeds are scattered on the wind. And if I want to feel the wind in my hair, tree's cradle boughs into make-shift swings these days.

Hallucination or not, it's a truly blessed space to be in.

I still don't really know what to do. But I also have a feeling that that's just a conscious and superficial unknown. Deep down, I think I got it all figured out. I have just got to wait till it surfaces. That's all. :)

an invitation to do things differently

I am not so sure that there is a space for elation and sadness to sit side by side and enjoy each others company. But then the law's of everything known to me have defied me many times before... so why would this time be any different, right? I'm not averse to the idea that I may be a walking realm of contradictions; my life tends to present all the data I need to confirm that, in fact. And its most easily explained as the compulsive artists greatest truth: a strength and a weakness, in and of itself a paradox. But it helps to also sit back and appreciate the little details of an almost normal existence; petty it may seem, but thorough and grounded in its own way.

I am still deciding, but the way I see it... Certainty might be a judgment of the mind; riddled as it chooses to be... or an easy battleground upon which the demons of past and present might play their sordid game. But even in my not-so-sureness state of semi-denial, I can tell that the space exists- delight and melancholy sit on a swing, holding hands and pretending not to giggle at my confused expression. Is it possible, I wonder... or an illusion of sorts... to be part of the creation of something beautiful and then murder it in cold blood, with those same warm hands?

What bare hands can slash an inspired canvas... when the invitation is to celebrate all the love and enthusiasm that life has to offer... Makes you think, doesn't it?

'bliss and blood'

"How did my hearts rose

become this astounding red?

Through being washed again and again

in waves of bliss and blood."

R U M I

belief, trust and process

I am in need of one of those magic potions that will keep me astride the latest developments, and all pepped up with the vitamins of good and glorious. Okay, what I mean to say is that what with all the hype of my new writing project, I am in constant need to replenish the energies of enthusiasm and to find myself the inspiration I need to dive into it.

*Deep Breath*

The new project is about to begin. I got a call to set the ball rolling late last week. And so, I am about to take that nose-dive into the refreshing waters of an exciting research project that has already got me meeting some fascinating types. My world is about to merge with an underworld of veterans and newbies; spies of old, turned fruitsellers and ex-pats nostalgic for the dust of days gone by.

Of course, colliding with that novel that I have been pretending to write, means that the overlaps will prove to be an interesting challenge for me. And there's no rush to get anywhere, anytime as per diary and stop-watch. No guilt about words that won't happen. No anxiety about the project being compromised. I am just being one with the words and being pulled along by the current from which they flow.

I believe in process; I trust the ability for things set in motion to make their way along a vine of growth and contention and more growth.

So they will happen together; my rainbow of things, side by side. And together, they will merge on this canvas of newness.

PS: This post represents the inauguration of the new baby. I will do a separate post on it in a few days when I can get back to the blogs. Cheerio till then. S.

Good News and Bad News...

Good news is always welcome.

I believe that.

Especially since a lot of negative words get thrown about and rages flying from people you probably won't remember in two years time can cause unnecessary grief. And then there were those 'venom-spitting turds' who called themselves anon. Aaaarghhhh. I mean...who needs someone else's hot potato in their laps, right? Especially when things you say get twisted by ego's only ready for a jol.

What happens when their thirsts are quenched? Will they see the light, or will they continue to delude themselves for a lifetime? I guess everyone gets what they deserve, me included :) Alhamdulillah.

Ok.. First the bad news. I am in an excruciating amount of pain today. This all due to some painkillers wearing off and an hour of dental drilling into the recesses of my one measly tooth. It used to live quite peacefully at the back of my mouth until that dreaded day. A cavity. My dentist says its due to those braces I had when I was 13. Today's braces don't do that, she says. Right. Back then it was the coolest thing to sort out twisty teeth; accept for the fact that I couldn't chew gum or eat 'jawbreakers' (remember those hot spicey red ones??!!) or that I couldn't eat those lollypops with the gooey centre.

Back to the present; this all a load of drama to bring me to my proverbial knees. Actually, I am sitting on my knees as I type this! (I use one of these posture accurate typist chairs that has a rest for knees and butt. It's kinda funky. And it has wheels :P I love it. But Boi am I in pAiN!. Sigh.

So, to put away the bad news, I'm going to sleep. Writing is not happening today. Not like this, any way. Hmm... now for the good news...

I have just been appointed as a trustee (the youngest, I might add :P) on the corporate board of WIPHOLD. I know, its just a word. Or an acronym. I know. But it's a feather in my cap, whichever way. We are a total of five board trustees. The CEO of WIPHOLD, the CEO of WipCapital and the Chairperson (a Founder Member with great Merit in her field - legal and corporate). And then theres another two of us, newly appointed. This piece of news comes at a rather opportune time, seeing as I am at the threshold of many choices. It is a culmination of the many coats that I wear in the corporate and social sectors and I really hope to be able to make the most of it.

Read the Corporate Profile Mission Statement HERE.

The reasons that I have become hugely interested in this organisation is their immense social responsibility programmes in place. In some cases, companies like these are able to do more than the state. Read more about the extensive Social Development Commitment HERE.

I have a feeling that 2009 is going to be one heck of an exciting year!

i am you, alright...

you are

that fresh breeze
playing with the curls in my hair,

that tinge of sunlight that
leaves gold dust on my skin,

that rustle in the wind
of the grasses before
the summer rains...

that dainty twitter
of love birds
meeting each other after
a time.

you are
that moonlight
dancing on the surface
of a crystal pond,

that gleam in the
gems that glisten on
my earlobes...

that sound of
life just awakening
to its wholeness.

you are.

i am.

and i am you.

but you are.