Ever since I finished White Wahalla, I've received a few requests to tell the stories of the other characters who didn't feature as prominently in the novel but were intriguing nonetheless. I thought I should have a go at writing about Terry Khumalo, the ANC "fixer". Here's a taste of what's to come:

Suddenly, the private phone on his desk rang with a muted warble and Terry's breath quickened. 
"Terry, this is Joe Shiplansky at the State Department." He had a Southern drawl that the transatlantic connection did little to hide.
"Yes, Joe?" There was no time for niceties. With Joe Shiplansky there never was.
"It's your Minister Xaki." He pronounced the name correctly with the subtle tongue click on the "X". Joe Shiplansky was nothing if not thorough. "He's in let's say a compromising situation outside a student dorm in downtown DC. I've got ten minutes to get him out of there. What do y'all want me to do?" 
Terry considered the options for a moment. He knew of Philemon Xaki's weakness for young girls and that the younger they were, the more he lost control. He could end the man’s career right now or he could give the fool another chance. Xaki’s future, indeed his whole life was resting in Terry's hands and the wretched man didn't even know it. Terry closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, savouring the moment. 
"Uh... the timeline just accelerated, Terry." he heard Shiplansky say. "We've got less than five minutes."
"Get him out of there, Joe."
"Done. You owe me Terry."
Terry nodded grimly. Philemon Xaki owed him too.

Long ago when I was a kid, before anyone in Accra had a washing machine, there was this guy who used to come to the house every Saturday morning to do the laundry. I didn’t know his name and I don’t think anyone did either. We just called him “Washman”. Not Samsung,  not LG. Just Washman.  He was tall and muscular and couldn’t have been more than thirty. He got his muscles from doing our washing on Saturday’s and at other people’s homes other days of the week.  I remember him crouched over a metal tub, half hidden behind a low cloud of soap suds with his arms flailing as he beat and pummeled the clothes into submission. And that wasn’t all. Washman only took a break when the clothes were drying and in the early afternoon he’d send his apprentice (sorry, he didn’t have a superhero name and if he did he kept it to himself) to bring the clothes in off the line. Then he’d get to work with one of these charcoal irons with a cockerel  at the prow. He’d heat it up with glowing coals and I would hear the thud, thud long into the night as he pressed the iron down hard onto the clothes and folded them into perfect geometric shapes. The smell of newly washed, freshly pressed cotton is one I’ll always remember. I bet Samsung can’t do that.

Well folks, this is my first ever blog entry. Ever. So here goes…

It's been one year exactly today since Thando passed away. It's been really reassuring to read the messages of comfort and well wishes on Facebook and elsewhere. I know Thando would be touched, so thank you everybody.

When I was growing up in Ghana (actually it's still the same today) the newspapers would dedicate at least a couple of pages everyday to memorial notices. I used to wonder why there were so many of them, grainy black and white photos above a seemingly  formulaic script, destined to be wrapped around a handful of roasted groundnuts at the roadside several days later. 

But it doesn't matter that the newspaper eventually gets wrapped around a bundle of hot groundnuts or the web posts get buried under a mountain of other postings. I realise now that the simple act of remembering people dear to us is as essential as breathing. For remembrance places our hands on the rope that links each of us through space and time in a celestial web that disappears far away into the heavens. Now that's heavy for a Sunday afternoon while I wait to watch Arsenal struggle against lowly Swansea in the FA cup. If only they could remember…… 

Ekow