I’m sick. And I’m Tired of Pretending It’s Okay.

I’m sick. And I’m Tired of Pretending It’s Okay.

My legs gave out again yesterday.

I was walking, just walking, and suddenly the signal from my brain went silent like a dropped call. It’s the second time this has happened to me. It’s really strange because it takes a moment for the signal to reconnect, and during that moment, which feels far longer than it actually is, my arms flail about trying to find something to grab hold of, even though it is an entirely pointless exercise. I hit the ground hard, narrowly escaping hitting my head against a brick step.  I’ve torn the same calf muscle four times. I know the pain intimately, like a pain you thought you’d outgrown but still clings like smoke to your clothes.

But this isn’t about the fall. Not really. It’s the shrinking in someone’s eyes when I say, “I have MS.”

Multiple Sclerosis.

You’ve heard the name. Maybe you’ve seen a celebrity wear a ribbon or a TikToker do a day-in-my-life with a cane and a glossy filter. But unless it’s in your body, or someone you love is limping through this mess, you don’t really know.

So let me tell you.

MS is a full-time job I never applied for

Multiple Sclerosis is an autoimmune disease where your body, your own beautiful, broken, fiercely trying body, decides to eat away at your nerves. The myelin sheath that protects your neurons gets attacked, and like frayed electrical wires, the signals get patchy. Delayed. Disrupted. Or gone entirely.

It’s not predictable. It’s not curable. It’s not one-size-fits-all. No, yoga and oat milk matcha spirulina chia smoothies are not going to cure it. Yes, I’ve tried.

But more to the point, it sure as hell isn’t funny.

For me, it means:

  • Pain that stabs and twists like barbed wire in my calves.
  • Spasticity that locks my legs in place like rusted bolts.
  • Hands that stiffen and fingers that won’t move.
  • Fatigue that isn’t “tired.” It’s “my bones have been replaced with concrete and I can’t lift my arms to wash my hair.”
  • Brain fog that makes me lose my train of thought mid-sentence, or forget words like “kettle” and “Thursday.”
  • Vision blurring, numb hands, trouble swallowing, and the occasional delightful surprise of losing control of my own limbs.
  • Painful electrical pulses that shoot through your body, anywhere, any time, every day. The ones I rarely talk about out loud.
  • And let’s not forget the big daddy of dickheads. The hug that crushes your lungs and stabs you in the chest if you try to take a breath or move before it’s done torturing you.

And stress? It pours gasoline on all of it.

Stress is not just a trigger; it’s a loaded gun

When I’m stressed, when life delivers too much grief, too many bills, too many people expecting me to perform wellness like a broken-down show pony, my symptoms flare.

I lose strength. I lose sleep. I lose pieces of myself.

The problem is, the world doesn’t see the flare.

They see me cancel plans. They see me slow down. They see me quiet. And instead of understanding or patience, I get comments.

  • “Must be nice to lie in bed all day.”
  • “You don’t look sick.”
  • “We all get tired, you just have to keep going.”
  • “Are you sure it’s not all in your head?” >> No fucking shit, Sherlock! Look at my MRI, my head is full of it.

This is not your punchline

I’ve heard the jokes. Seen the memes. Watched people laugh about forgetting their keys and say to me, “Oops, maybe I also  have MS!” (Yeah, not funny.)

I’ve watched people roll their eyes when I say I can’t drive today because my left foot won’t lift properly. I’ve had colleagues act like I’m milking it. I’ve had doctors talk over me, then prescribe yoga and mindfulness when what I need is a damn MRI. I’ve had strangers verbally attack me because I parked in a disabled zone.

I’ve seen pity turn into boredom. Sympathy into silence. And let me tell you: nothing hurts like being dismissed when you’re already fighting your own body just to exist.

What I want you to know

I didn’t choose this.

MS took my ability to dance, to sing, to be spontaneous. It took my certainty. It took the version of me that used to trust my own body and enjoyed life. It took the me that loved to be spontaneous, adventurous, playful. But let me tell you, it didn’t take my fight. I will not sit down and be quiet. I will keep going. I will keep fighting. It did not take my voice.

And so I’m using it.

To say:

  • Please stop downplaying invisible illness.
  • Please stop measuring someone’s pain against how well they can smile through it or hide the shit show that’s going on inside them.
  • Please stop expecting people with chronic conditions to perform gratitude like it’s a damn talent show.

Chronic illness is hard enough without having to fight for legitimacy and dignity.

And I’m tired. So fucking tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of barely surviving. Tired of pretending I’m fine when I’m hanging on by a thread. I don’t get to rest. I don’t get to fall apart. I have to take care of myself, every meal, every bill, every damn decision, in a body that betrays me and reacts to everything I do or feel. And no one sees the cost.

I’m still here

I am still here. Still trying. Still waking up in this fucking body I didn’t choose, but have no choice but to live inside. Yes, there is a lot wrong with me, no, I don’t enjoy it, and no, it’s not funny.

Sometimes I cry from the pain. Sometimes I scream from the frustration. Sometimes I laugh, because if I don’t, I’ll unravel completely.

But I am here. Bruised, exhausted, aching, but here.

And if you’re reading this and you have a chronic illness too, I see you. You’re not lazy. You’re not faking. You’re not alone.

You’re carrying a battle inside your body that most people can’t even imagine.

And you’re still here, too.

What about you?
Have you ever had to defend your pain? To justify your limits?
Tell me. I’m listening.

Healthwashed: When “Wellness” Drinks Aren’t What They Seem

Healthwashed: When “Wellness” Drinks Aren’t What They Seem

I recently got suckered by a local sparkling drink that looked like it belonged in a wellness influencer’s fridge. You know the type, soft colours, botanical flavour, “low sugar,” “no colourants,” “crafted.” It practically whispered, “I’m healthy, babe.”

And I believed it.
Especially because it featured one of my all-time favourite flavours: elderflower. I didn’t question it. I sipped it like it was liquid virtue.

Then I read the label.
Twelve grams of sugar.
Three teaspoons in one small can.

For someone managing chronic illness, inflammation, and fatigue, that’s a problem.

What happened?

I got healthwashed, misled by clever packaging that makes something seem healthy when it’s not.

These drinks use phrases like:

  • Botanical
  • Low Sugar
  • Guilt-Free
  • Plant-Powered
  • Inspired by Nature

But they’re often hiding more sugar than you’d expect, or loaded with fruit concentrates and additives that don’t belong anywhere near a “clean” label.

Here’s what to watch out for:

“Low sugar” still adds up.
In South Africa, it can mean up to 5g per 100ml, so a 300ml drink can still sneak in 12g of sugar.

“Botanical” is branding, not nutrition.
It’s marketing fluff. It doesn’t mean the drink is good for you.

Always read the back of the label.
Ignore the pretty front. Flip it. Check the sugar per serving and the ingredients list.

Sneaky red flags:

  • Serving size is 100ml, but the can is 300ml
  • “Fruit juice concentrate” or “cane sugar” listed early
  • Claims like “natural” or “artisan” with no real context

My takeaway?

Even products that look healthy can mess with your health, especially if you’re sensitive to sugar, trying to reduce inflammation, managing symptoms, or lose weight.

This isn’t about guilt.
It’s about knowing what’s in your food so you can make choices that support your body.

Because sugar has a sneaky little habit of dressing up in wellness drag.

Ever been healthwashed?
Tell me your sneakiest “thought it was healthy” product below

My Nervous System Is Not for Public Debate

My Nervous System Is Not for Public Debate

Don’t Tell Me I’m “Too Sensitive.” You’re Just Too Cruel.

It happened in front of a Starbucks. Like so many little violences do. I was inching my car into a disabled bay, my legs trembling, fatigue coiled behind my eyes like a migraine ready to strike, when a woman dripping in costume jewellery appeared. Finger raised. Voice already sharp with judgment.

“You can’t park there.”

I told her I could. That I had a permit and that I have multiple sclerosis.

She scoffed. “Those things are fake. You can buy them anywhere.”

“Really?” I thought to myself, “Where?” Probably would’ve been easier.


Then she looked me in the face and said: “Multiple Sclerosis doesn’t count.”

Let me repeat that. Multiple Sclerosis doesn’t **ing count.

Well, clearly I need to have a little chat with my world-class neurologist. Obviously, this woman knew something he didn’t.

I wish I had a clever comeback. Something surgical and savage that would’ve left her sizzling in a puddle of her own ignorance.

But I didn’t.

I just stood there, vibrating with rage, with shame of her making a scene in public, of her filming me on her phone, with that old, sick feeling in my gut: Here we go again.


My nervous system wasn’t built for public debate. And yet, here I was. My body on trial in the middle of town. I just wanted a coffee and to sit down because getting out in the world is an ENORMOUS treat for me these days.

The Price of Looking “Fine”

When I was first diagnosed, the man I was dating didn’t believe me.

“You’re not actually sick,” he said. “You look fine.”

As if illness only counts if it disfigures you. As if I must drag a wound behind me like a Victorian ghost to be believed.

He cheated on me with two of my friends and later dated a woman with a more obvious illness. I did start to question if he had some kind of bizarre fetish or if he just needed to feel more masculine by having a damsel in distress on his flabby arm. Who knows, people are weird. Once, with godlike certainty, he said: “Maybe you just don’t get to have love.”

I didn’t believe him; I’m not that messed up. But that’s what the world teaches you when your illness hides under your skin. That, unless your pain is public, photogenic, and can make people tilt their heads with an “oh, you poor thing” look, it doesn’t count.

That your nervous system, your actual lived experience, is somehow up for peer review.

Welcome to the Performance of “Okay”

Women are taught from the beginning to make pain look pretty. Smiling through cramps. Working through grief. Performing resilience like it’s an effing TED Talk.

Throw chronic illness into the mix, and you’re cast in a very specific role:

  • Be brave, but not bitter.
  • Be strong, but not messy.
  • Be informative, but not angry.
  • Be disabled, but not inconvenient.

God forbid you feel things.
God forbid your body doesn’t cooperate.

The Ableism Hidden in Wellness Culture

Let’s talk about the billion-dollar lie that says you can “heal yourself” if you try hard enough.

  • Green juice.
  • Yoga.
  • Mindset.
  • Detoxes.
  • Energy work.

The whole “optimise your nervous system” cult that pretends trauma and illness are just bad habits you haven’t outgrown yet.

I’m not knocking genuine care or ritual or pleasure; I love a magnesium bath as much as the next exhausted woman. But I am calling out the violence that happens when the wellness world gaslights the sick. When it blames you for your symptoms. When it markets recovery as a brand you can buy if you hustle hard enough and stop being “negative.”

Sometimes a body is just broken. Sometimes it’s just tired. Sometimes it’s never going to be better, and that doesn’t mean you failed. It means the system did.

I Don’t Owe You My Pain Performance

I don’t owe you visible suffering.
I don’t owe you explanations.
I don’t owe you a limp, a wheelchair, a medical file, or a teary TEDx talk.

I have MS. It’s real. And whether I’m collapsed in bed or laughing at a party or, God forbid, standing tall in a disabled parking space, I’m still sick. I’m still fighting. And I’m still not here to make you comfortable.

Stop asking women to shrink their pain into something you can digest.

Stop calling us “too sensitive” when what you mean is, “I don’t want to feel implicated in your reality.”

My nervous system is not a fucking debate club. It’s not up for peer review.
It’s mine. It’s sacred. And sometimes it hurts like hell.

And Still, I Rise. Not to Inspire You. To Save Myself.

The best part? That ex who told me I didn’t get to have love? He was wrong. So wrong it’s almost funny. I found someone who didn’t need proof to believe me. Who didn’t treat my illness like an inconvenience or a prop. Who holds space when my legs fail and holds my hand when they don’t.

What About You?

Have you ever been asked to prove your pain?
Have you swallowed your symptoms to make others more comfortable?
What would it feel like to stop performing and just… be?

You don’t owe anyone your broken parts.
But if you feel like sharing, I’m listening.

How I Turned Into a Pot Plant and Suffered My Own Neglect

How I Turned Into a Pot Plant and Suffered My Own Neglect

Life lately? Bit of a circus, honestly. The kind where you’re both the juggler and the flaming hoops. I’ve been playing defence (is that the right phrase? I’m South African, so I dunno, insert a rugby version here). Point is, it’s been A Lot™.

Work has slowed down to a crawl. Thank you, AI overlords. Thank you, Canva. Thank you, Wix. Apparently, if you can drag and drop a rectangle onto a screen, you no longer need two decades of actual design experience. I’m thrilled.

And here’s the thing: I’ve hit that midlife shift, the one no one warns you about, where you just stop caring about being impressive or polished or “professional.” I’m tired of being the safe, dependable designer who always colours inside the lines (and yes, I’m still good at it and will obviously continue to do it, but something in me is itching for more). I want to smash some rules. I want to do some design that bites. I want to make something so bold it makes a marketing exec spill their Triple-Foamed Almond-Oat-Cashew-Matcha-Chai-Latte™ or whatever the latest Plant-Based Personality Beverage™ is trending right now. I want to shred the PowerPoint and play the guitar solo that ends with me setting the stage on fire.

Physically, I’m okay if “okay” means cocooned under 6 blankets, trying to weigh up the pros and cons of getting up to pee. The bathroom is approximately the temperature of Neptune. I am seriously contemplating whether a SheWee is a worthwhile winter investment. If anyone wants to sponsor one, I’ll write a full review, just saying.

In other news, Bugsy recently found and swallowed what can only be described as a decomposing pelt from the Upside Down Pet Buffet. I couldn’t stop him, because, well, MS. Now he’s groaning and on kibble lockdown. He’ll do it again. We both know it.

Other recent obsessions include:
– Nutritional yeast (I don’t even know who I am anymore, but this stuff is gooooood).
– Cinnamon. In everything. I’m basically a sentient chai.
– The fantasy of watching trash TV with a giant mug of lactose-free, sugar-free hot choc and zero obligations.

On the “doing things because I have to, not because I want to” list:
• Looking for work
• Doing work
• Starting 7 side hustles because bills
• Also, doing dishes (or rather, avoiding them entirely)

My soul? Currently on a hunger strike. All it wants is to make weird, beautiful things: paint, write, doodle, sing to plants, get lost in a good audiobook (if I could actually find one narrated by someone who doesn’t sound like a robot or a smug yoga teacher).

Also, if my body could leave me a Post-it note, it would say:
“I’m in spasm. I’m twitching like a haunted doll. Please sort this out.”

A few other thoughts, while we’re here: I’ve irrationally decided that my long, tangled hair is now my entire identity and also the enemy and needs the chop.

My autobiography title this week is How I Turned Into a Pot Plant and Suffered My Own Neglect.

Speaking of plants, I watered two of them recently, and they’re thriving. Who knew that water helps? Revolutionary.

That’s where I’m at. Tired. Unapologetically salty. Creatively starved. But weirdly hopeful that something good will take root if I just keep showing up. Maybe a little scrappy. Maybe not polished. But real.

Let’s see what grows.

— Kate

Bugsy says he won’t eat anything dead and unidentifiable this week… if you buy us a coffee: buymeacoffee.com/kateandginger


This weeks’s productivity level: 2/10 , but my plants are alive, so.

Mood-Support Beverage™ of the Week: Existential Crampuccino™, spicy, bitter, best served in bed.

Unsolicited Product Endorsement: This entry is not sponsored by SheWee™, but it should be.

Bugsy’s Digestive Adventures™: This week’s highlight: decomposing pelt from the Upside Down™ Pet Buffet.

Bugsy says he won’t eat anything dead and unidentifiable next week… if you buy us a coffee: buymeacoffee.com/kateandginger

Ubuntu: The Village House

Ubuntu: The Village House

1 · Returning to the House That Held Our Breath

Zola was seven when we steered back into Goodwood’s quiet grid of post‑war houses, hunting for the low‑slung building neighbours still call Ubuntu House. My palms stuck to the steering wheel the way they had seven years earlier, the day a social worker placed a two‑month‑old stranger in my arms and told me I was now a parent.

Then, the front garden felt like a border post between two emotional republics: on one side, certainty that the next breath would change our lives; on the other, terror that we weren’t ready. Now, the same gate squeaked its welcome, and the hibiscus hedge, once taller than my courage, looked almost friendly.

“Smells like someone’s cooking pap n sous,” Zola announced, inhaling.
“You noticed the food first,” I laughed. “You really are my child.”

We signed the visitors’ book and stepped inside a building that has perfected the art of pause. Ubuntu House exists because South African law grants birth mothers a two‑month window to reverse an adoption decision. That pause protects everyone: the woman processing heartbreak, the baby adjusting to gravity, and the would‑be parents guarding their hearts like porcelain.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu once explained ubuntu this way: “You can’t be human all by yourself.” Ubuntu House is that sentence turned into bricks, cribs, and the gentle swoosh of a steriliser. It’s a village waiting room—where communities, not just couples, learn how much courage it takes to love with an open hand.

2 · The Parable of Zola — An Unfinished Adoption

Zola remembers nothing of her sixty days in the House; memory begins for her with crayons, not cribs. Yet returning unlocked faint echoes: the rattle of a metal cot, the warmth of a volunteer’s palm, a lullaby in two languages. She traced a finger along the nursery wall where eight identical cots stood like empty parentheses, waiting for sentences.

A veteran caregiver, Auntie Nomsa, hugged us both. The hug smelled of cocoa butter, disinfectant, and defiant hope.

“Each baby who leaves takes a family,” she said, “and each family takes the rest of us. We never cut the umbilical cord, we splice it.”

Splice. The word vibrated like guitar feedback. Zola’s origin story is not a tidy arc from orphan to Hallmark montage; it is a braid of birth‑mother bravery, legislative patience, caregiver stamina, and adoptive bewilderment. The book remains open, scribbled in pencil rather than ink.

South Africa’s own saga is equally pencilled. We’ve written luminous chapters—1994’s ballot queues snaking around township classrooms—and blacked‑out pages stained by Marikana shootings, state capture, and xenophobic violence. Draft after draft, we edit, erase, annotate, argue. Our national manuscript won’t be published in hardback during our lifetime, yet footnotes accumulate daily.

3 · Zoom‑Out — A Nation in the Waiting Room

Every society keeps a waiting room, a liminal space between what was and what might become. Ours is the Home Affairs queue, the voting‑day school hall, the taxi where eight languages debate potholes and rugby in the same breath.

Zimbabwean historian Stanlake Samkange distilled ubuntu into three maxims; the first insists: “I affirm my humanity by recognising yours.” Yet our news feeds roar the opposite: electric fences, algorithmic outrage, dinner tables split by power cuts. We resemble new adoptive parents, terrified the country might change its mind and reclaim the fragile optimism we clutch.

Voices from the Waiting Room

VoiceWhat they sayWhat they fearWhat they hope
The Economist“GDP is a national mood ring; when trust dips, capital flees.”Permanent junk status.Policy that marries growth with equity.
TikTok Comedian @AuntyFats“Can we braai without dragging Eskom into the marinade?”Being cancelled by both Left and Right.Humour as a pressure valve.
Taxi Driver Vusi“Ek ry ’n land wat nog soek vir homself.”Politicians weaponising diversity.Kids who can dream in any language.
Adoption Social Worker K. Naidoo“Families think the two‑month pause is cruel. It’s mercy—for everyone.”That adoptive parents ghost the House once papers clear.Kin‑across‑difference, lifelong.
Grade‑12 Matriculant Lerato“We’ve only known democracy, but not equality.”That opportunity is postcode‑dependent.A bursary—and safe streets to walk to class.

Each fear is legitimate, each hope fragile; all share the same cramped lobby with flickering fluorescent lights.

4 · The Long Table Metaphor

Imagine South Africa as a never‑ending farmhouse trestle stretching from Musina to Muizenberg. Seats are unassigned; you arrive with a story and a spoon. You’re expected to eat and listen in equal measure.

Eating together is one of humanity’s oldest hacks for turning anxiety into appetite. Anthropologists call it commensality; grandmothers call it “Have you eaten, my child?” Food metabolises hierarchy into humility, suspicion into seasoning.

So what belongs in the shared pot—a dish so unmistakably South African that even picky eaters will lean in?

5 · Recipe — Ubuntu Pot (Rainbow Samp‑&‑Bean Stew)

A base as humble as a baby’s first porridge, yet sturdy enough to host a carnival of toppings.

Ingredients (Serves 8 at the Long Table)

ElementWhy it matters
2 cups samp (cracked maize)Staple in Xhosa kitchens; edible heritage.
2 cups sugar beansProtein for vegans and carnivores.
1 large sweet potato, cubedSweet resilience from Mpumalanga soils.
1 cup butternut, dicedGold‑orange like a flag square.
1 tin coconut milkCape Malay nod; lactose‑free comfort.
2 tbsp peanut butterWest‑African echo & allergy conversation‑starter.
1 tbsp mild curry powderDurban warmth without nuclear fallout.
2 cloves garlic, 1 thumb gingerImmune boosters & gossip deterrents.
Bouquet fresh thyme & bayAuntie Nomsa’s secret.
Salt & cracked black pepperBecause people confuse “season” with “spice”.

Method

  1. Overnight Prelude – Soak samp and beans separately under moonlight; they, too, need a cooling‑off period. 
  2. Union Ceremony – Rinse, then simmer both in 2 L salted water until nearly tender (≈60 min). 
  3. Colour‑In – Add sweet potato, butternut, garlic, ginger, herbs; cook 20 min. 
  4. Cape‑Malay Kiss – Stir in curry powder, coconut milk, peanut butter; simmer 10 min until velvet‑thick. 
  5. Serve – Ladle into enamel mugs. Invite toppings from the Side‑Dish Carnival.

Side‑Dish Carnival (Choose‑Your‑Own‑Identity)

  • Fire‑Charred Boerewors Coins – for protein maximalists. 
  • Bright Mango Atchar – sweet‑acid punch, vegan. 
  • Hand‑Ripped Dhania & Mint – herb bridge between spice provinces. 
  • Crisp Pap Chips – gluten‑free crunch for texture anarchists. 
  • Vegan Chakalaka – because the pot still needs gossip. 
  • Pickled Beetroot Hearts – sour‑sweet apology for yesterday’s arguments.

The genius of Ubuntu Pot isn’t culinary complexity; it’s social architecture. A neutral base welcomes any condiment personality that drizzles onto it, exactly how a nation should welcome whichever narrative occupies the chair beside ours.

(Want dessert? Slice naartjies in half, dip the cut sides in brown sugar and set them caramelising on the dying coals. Simple, smoky, bittersweet—like history.)

6 · When the Ladle Is Missing — Accountability at the Table

What happens when someone hogs the ladle—when corruption siphons gravy from the communal pot? Ubuntu is neither naïve nor a scented candle; it demands mutual obligation.

Consider load shedding—briefly a joke, now a chronic ulcer on national time. We can rage on Twitter or we can organise street‑by‑street solar co‑ops, turning candle misery into micro‑grid resilience. When a councillor parks a luxury SUV outside a crumbling clinic, we can meme the hypocrisy or crowd‑fund pressure gauges for the maternity ward’s oxygen supply.

Ubuntu’s darker twin is ubuvila—slothful indifference. Compassion without accountability curdles into charity cosplay. Accountability without compassion mutates into punitive purism. The ladle must circulate—grease the hand if you must, but pass it on.

7 · Practical Acts of Micro‑Ubuntu (Calories Included)

  1. Adopt a Kilometre – Greet every security guard, hawker, and cleaner by name for 30 days. 
  2. Pass the Salt Online – Rewrite your hottest rebuttal as a sincere question before posting. 
  3. Kitchen‑Chair Amnesty – Host supper where each guest brings a grievance with another guest; eat first, talk second. 
  4. Library Receipt Roulette – Tuck an encouraging note inside a returned library book. 
  5. Civic Cooling‑Off Period – Wait 48 hours before deciding you’re outraged. 
  6. Electric‑Fence Fika – Once a month, invite the neighbour whose dog keeps you awake to coffee over the wall. 
  7. Queue DJ – Create a shared playlist via Bluetooth speaker while everyone waits at Licensing. Democracy is easier in 4/4 time. 
  8. Mentor in the Dark – Offer load‑shedding study sessions lit by rechargeable lanterns at the local hall. 
  9. Grocery‑Basket Swap – Switch shopping lists with a friend from another culture and cook each other’s supper. 
  10. Two‑Month Mercy Challenge – Practise a cooling‑off period in personal conflict: no final words, no ultimatums, for sixty days. If Ubuntu House can hold a baby that long, you can hold your fury.

8 · Conclusion — Leaving the House, Extending the Table

As dusk melted across Goodwood, Zola pressed her forehead against Ubuntu House’s gate.

“Did I cry a lot here?” she asked.
“No,” Auntie Nomsa smiled. “You slept, you ate, and every time we picked you up, you looked.”

Looked—present continuous tense. Zola is still looking, scanning horizons for blank pages she will someday fill. So, too, is South Africa. Our village house is vast; its rooms echo with unfinished sentences; its long table stretches beyond the throw of any single candle.

When we finally drove away, Zola waved through the rear window. I realised she wasn’t saying goodbye; she was resetting the horizon line between who she has been and who she might still become.

If a child’s first home can teach patience to legal systems, courage to birth‑mothers, and endurance to strangers who may never again see her face, imagine what a country of sixty‑two million could teach itself—if we sat down, passed the ladle, and tasted the stew before criticising the menu.

Let the tears come—of sadness for what’s broken, of joy for what still breathes. Then wipe them away with the corner of a neighbour’s serviette. Hope survives exactly there: in the messy, generous moment where my humanity needs yours to taste like anything at all.