I can’t mention names.
Tatensrope is an anagram for the town of Paternoster on the west coast of South Africa. I wanted a town that already existed, but also was my own.
Load shedding happens all the time in South Africa as the corrupt government have bankrupted municipalities and the electricity provider—therefore, not enough infrastructure upgrading has been able to take place and so not enough electricity is generated for a growing population.
A desert rose is a sand rose. It is found mainly in the Namib desert but is found on the west coast too. From the way the sand shifts and the morning dew soaks in to the sand, it freezes into a pattern looking almost exactly like a rose in full bloom. This story is written from a lot of life experience, chatting with people who’ve dealt with similar issues and because – SOUTH AFRICA!
To every human who’s made good on their second chance—good on you. To those who have received one—it’s worth the hard work. To those who’ve abused theirs—shame on you.
And last but most certainly not least – to a very special young lady who inspired Lullu’s love for and brilliant accomplishment in the vaulting arena’s of South Africa, Chamonix Lombard – always follow your dreams my girl, always!
Simple Truths
Lost & Found - Book One
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Prelude
The clinic at the far north end of the Koinadugu District in Sierra Leone is busy, sticky, zooms with flies, and reeks of death. Another outbreak of Cholera in the small, poverty-stricken village has all the staff of our deployment of Doctors Without Borders at their wits end.
The canvas walls of the tent billow as hot wind slaps them to and fro, bringing little relief but only adding to the misery of life. My guide and self-proclaimed protector, Max, holds back the flap of the door for me to step out and stand beneath a threadbare tarp tied between two dead stumps. It provides little relief as a makeshift shield from the sun. In the distance, a herd of goats bleat when a lone bull dares to drink from the same trough that they do. The shade, distributed to them by trees I’ve never bothered to learn about, is sparse and practically nonexistent; here leaves, like people, wither as soon as they bloom.
“Dokta!” a rickety, parched voice calls out.
I look to my left as I duck and step out into the scorching African morning.
A woman, small in stature but strong in presence, walks toward me. Her grey hair is plaited in a way that pulls the skin of her face in tight lines around her eyes. Around her neck, wrists, and ankles hang leather straps decorated with feathers, stones, and beads. Her tan-colored three quarter pants and blue button-up top are well worn, but clean. Over her shoulder hangs a handmade leather bag decorated in beads and more: small bones. A bag I know from experience holds specially engraved bones, teeth, and other paraphernalia used by her kind.
“Be gon wit ya, woman!”
Max the ever loyal, steps forward and puts himself between the woman and me.
I tuck a wayward strand of my thick blond mop behind my ear. “It’s okay. She means no harm.” I place a hand on his shoulder.
“Aye, she be da devil with dem eyes.”
“Shh, Max,” I plead. “How can I help?” I ask, trying not to focus on her gaze. Her eyes, one blue as the sky crowning our heads and the other as brown as the darkest chocolate ever tempered are the mark of a witch, according to local lore.
I lower my gaze respectfully.
“I no be meanin ta bother.” Her voice softens in a respectful tone as she apologizes and confirms my instincts.
Her skin is as leathery as her voice, but her body is strong. Her arms and legs, though slim, are lithe and toned, and her general appearance has no tell of the illness currently running rife through the village.
“Are you ill?” My hand instinctively rubs my tummy as I’m not sure why else she’d be here.
The woman throws her head back, and a cackle cracks like a whip through the heat-drenched air. Her laughter ceases as suddenly as it begins, and the woman inches closer.
Max tries to stand between us, but I shake my head as she reaches out and pinches my chin between her forefinger and thumb. She smells of smoldering fire and tobacco as she pins me to the spot with her mismatched gaze. For a moment, I am lost in the swirl of