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Journals

A Monday in KwaMashu

It’s 6 AM. The smell of coal and dew settles over KwaMashu. Children run barefoot across the road, school uniforms…
Journals

Notes from the Garden

There’s a fig tree outside my grandmother’s house that’s older than her. She says its roots know secrets. Today, I…
Manifestos

We Begin with the Body

We refuse to start in theory. We begin with flesh—soft, scarred, stretching toward joy. Our bodies are the first text,…
Artefacts

The Last Cassette Tape

It’s scratched, it skips, and it only plays if you press play twice—but this cassette tape, passed down through three…