The Seven Percent: Chapter 1

PART I: Unease

“All humans are created equal. That’s what we have always been told, but that is a lie. It’s the biggest and most dangerous lie of all time. We are not equal. Some people are different and it’s only a matter of time before they use those differences against the rest of us.”

Xolisa Themba, founder, True World Order


  1. Khalani

North West Province, South Africa

I wake up to the news that a Lith kid was stabbed to death in the parking lot of the fanciest shopping centre in Goldcrest. Fifteen times, with a brand new kitchen knife from MPH. The packaging was found on the ground beside his body. There were eleven security guards on duty but none of them witnessed the murder. By the time they found the boy he was dead, even though a medical expert said it would have taken him about an hour to bleed out. He was fourteen. Two years younger than me.

I sit up in bed, heart racing, wishing I had resisted the urge to check my phone before I was properly awake, wishing I had gone for a run first, or had breakfast first, or something. I feel like my stomach’s been ripped out. Last week it was politicians posturing and now it’s murder in shopping malls.

Shoving the duvet away, I stumble out of bed and rush into the adjoining bathroom, barely making it in time. My alarm goes off while I’m retching into the toilet bowl. I let it ring for a while, rocking back on my haunches, and then get up, flush and rinse my mouth. As I head back to my room and shut the alarm off it occurs to me that it might not be true.

The networks are a minefield of rumour and conjecture, doctored video feeds and quotes taken out of context. Maybe nobody was stabbed. Maybe it wasn’t a Lith kid. How would the attackers have known he was a Lith, anyway? Maybe he got mixed up with the wrong kind of friends and things went sour. Maybe someone saw his nice shoes and the hi-tech gadget he was flashing and decided life wasn’t fair, and something should be done about it. Maybe, just maybe, it’s not Us vs Them. Not yet. Not again.

I lean against my desk, taking deep breaths, counting on each exhalation the way I was taught. OK. No need to freak out. I’ll get on with my morning routine and by the time I get to school I’ll know for sure what happened.

My pulse slows as my body slips back into its regular flow. Wrinkled t-shirt and flannel shorts off. Leggings, tank top and sneakers on. No socks. Never socks. Check the time: 6:15. Glance in the mirror to make sure I didn’t become someone else in my sleep. Nope, still me. Too bad. Leave the room, walk to the kitchen, unlock the back door and stand on the stoep. Close my eyes. Breathe in.

Opening my eyes, I look out at the backyard. Plants spill out of the greenhouse and over the soil like a lolling green tongue, leaves and flowers and creeping vines all tangled up together, covering the brick walkway. Somewhere in the midst of it is the gazebo, a tame patch in the wilderness. And then, almost out of place, a perfect strip of pale, dry sand ringing all 100-odd square metres of the garden. The track. My track.

For a minute I forget about the day ahead. School and stabbings and maybe-war. The ground is dry despite yesterday’s rain, so I slip off my sneakers, leave them on the stoep and walk barefoot across the cold walkway, dodging the herbs but not the fallen leaves. Twenty paces. Twenty-five. I stop at the beginning of the track, just short of the line of sand, dig my toes into the grass until they touch the rich soil beneath, and take another deep breath.

Enlithiation isn’t magic. You don’t sense the lithium ions working their way up from the depths of the earth, through the layers of soil. You don’t feel them piercing the skin and rushing up through your bloodstream like an elixir, brightening and strengthening as they go. It’s science, microscopic and interesting but also mundane, and you won’t even know you’re lithed until you start moving, or thinking, or dreaming.

But that has never stopped me from imagining the process. Every single time my feet touch earth I pretend I can feel it happening and sometimes, if I go deep enough, down inside to where I can’t see or smell or sense anything but my own heartbeat, then I can almost feel it for real. A buzz of something electric moving through me. The planet waking me up, reminding me that I’m part of it.

And that’s when the anxiety sets in, and all the thoughts come rushing in on its back. School, stabbings, maybe-war. I see a kid lying in a pool of his own blood and shake my head. Focus, Khalani! Run!

Usually I take my time. Stretch my arms over my head, roll my neck a few times, get into position. On your marks, and all that. But today I can’t handle all the junk in my head. I can’t wait for the flow to find me. I step onto the sand and break into a full sprint, no jog, no warmup. I run, and run and run.

I’m fast. I always have been. I can run like death is at my heels, on and on, for ages. I’m not sure why. All Liths are strong, I guess, but as far as I know there were no athletes in my family. I run one lap, two, three. Chasing something. I’m always chasing something. Peace, maybe. Or something smaller, more attainable. The rush. Another medal, another record. I don’t know. Whatever it is, I don’t find it on the track today. I make a sharp turn to the left halfway through my fifth lap and run back to the house.

As I stop to grab my shoes I hear the sound of someone moving inside. My father. I know that even before I push the door open. We Mbathas are creatures of habit, and my dad made the mould.

“Morning, Baba.”

He’s dressed for work except for the standard bare feet. A half-drunk smoothie rests on the table, but his attention is focused on his phone.

“Hey, sweetie. Training?” He keeps scrolling, not even bothering to look at me.

I reach into the produce basket near the fridge for a banana. “Nothing serious. Just getting lithed. I’m still on break.”

“Right.” This time he raises his gaze to meet mine. Frowning, of course. Hyde Mbatha only smiles for photographs. “How long is this break supposed to be? It seems like you’ve been on hiatus for several months now.”

My mouth is full, so I don’t remind him for the seventieth time that it’s only been four weeks, I’m still attending school five days a week, and three hours out of that time is spent in Athletics. Technically I’m not even required to train beyond my Athletics class during off-season. Hiatus? Really?

“Don’t you think it’s time to get back to work?” Scroll, scroll, scroll. Frown. “You can’t afford to slip, not when your times are so good. You know Lith pros train non-stop. No breaks.”

Ja.” But I’m not a Lith pro. I’m a teenager with exams coming up. I take my time finishing the banana, then turn towards the kitchen door and roll my eyes.

“If you want to have a fighting chance at the Olympics, you need to keep pushing.”

I open the door and toss the banana peel into the composter, then step back indoors. “I know.”

“Is that all you’re having for breakfast?”

“I’ll get something at school.”


“Don’t worry.” I’m not in the mood for a lecture on nutrition, so I jerk my chin in the direction of his phone. “Anything interesting?”


“I heard they’re discussing segregation in parliament.”

He picks up his smoothie with a sigh. “They discuss a lot of things in parliament.”

Huh. It’s hard to tell how my dad really feels about anything these days. I’ve heard the gossip. I mean, everyone’s heard the gossip, but Goldcrest is not one of those places where people politely stop talking about you when you enter the room. It’s one of those places where they welcome you to the conversation. I don’t know if Baba is worried, but according to the networks he should be.

“My Media Science teacher says it’s only a matter of time before there’s a referendum.” Really casual, like it doesn’t matter either way. I press my belly into the side of the table and scratch the back of my head.

Baba snorts. “And your teachers are the experts now?”

“No, but –”

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he says, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “There are always the prejudiced few out there, making a fuss. It will blow over like it always does, everyone will come to their senses, and life will go on.”

“Well, they say parents are pushing for segregated schools –”

He looks up sharply. “Who are they? Your teachers? They shouldn’t be telling you kids that sort of nonsense.”

“Not teachers, Baba. Everyone. It’s all over the networks.”

“You’re not supposed to know what’s all over the networks.”

I purse my lips, stifling a flash of impatience. “I only get the ones I need for my classes,” I assure my father. “But kids at school talk.”

He nods. Not like he’s agreeing with me, though. One of those old wise man nods grownups give you when they’re about to remind you that you’re still a clueless child.

“You know, once upon a time news was reported by actual journalists,” he says. “People who went to school and were trained. Not just random fools with phones and a few million followers. This business of giving the people a voice is problematic; there needs to be some kind of structure. Order. You can’t have people spouting their rubbish like it’s scripture.”

I’m not even touching that. Baba likes to reflect on a past he never experienced, as if pining for the good old days can change the present. But I have questions. What are his business partners saying? Is the board worried that stocks in Lith-owned companies have started to drop? Is that even true, or just another rumour? Is a takeover brewing? Should I think about getting a part-time job in case we go bankrupt? Is Arietta Pine, a well-known Lith actress, really suing a restaurant because a waiter called her a mutant? Has Baba heard about the shopping mall stabbing? Is he scared under all that big man bravado?

Before I have the chance to ask, he says, “Go get ready for school, Lani. Tell your mother we’re leaving in ten minutes and wake your brother; that boy can sleep through a riot.”

For a second I stand there and think about carrying on with the conversation, asking one more question. Just one more, to test the waters. And then, because I know he’ll dismiss me again, and ja, because I’m a lousy coward, I do as I’m told. As I walk into the corridor I tell myself it’s silly to stand around speculating, anyway. I tell myself if anti-Lith sentiment is growing, being late for school won’t help me. I tell myself it’s better to keep my head down and let the grownups handle things.

But none of that makes the thoughts in my head stop spinning in circles. I’m still picturing a dead kid in a shopping mall parking lot.

I knock on the door of the master bedroom, wait for my mother’s response, then call out Baba’s message. Then I turn back towards my brother’s room. His door is locked, so I head to my own door and enter his room through our shared bathroom.

Khaya’s room is an artful mess. No, that’s a lie. It’s a regular mess, a stop-at-the-door-to-wrinkle-your-nose kind of mess, but since Khaya is a genius who spits rainbows, we’ll call it an artful mess. I wade through the sea of random, shiny crap on the floor and make my way to the bed.

He’s sprawled all over it like he’s posing for one of his fashion shoots, snoring softly. His alarm is ringing, but since it sounds like a romantic sonata, it has absolutely no effect on him. I locate the phone under the jacket by the foot of the bed and shut off the alarm. He fell asleep with his single dangly earring on again; he’s such a diva. I snicker, noting how much his new asymmetrical afro resembles a skateboard ramp, then lean over and shout “Get up!” into his ear.

He wakes with a start. “Wha…? Why…?” His eyes focus on my face and his lips stretch in a warm smile. “Oh. Morning, Lovely.”

That’s how he greets someone who’s woken him in the most obnoxious way, shattering his pleasant dreams with an ungodly yell. I shake my head. I’m still not sure how Mr Always In The Best Mood is my twin.  

“Get in the bath. We’re going to be late.”

“No, we won’t.” He peels himself off the bed and stretches, then glances around for his phone.

“No networking. Bath!” I shove him and he laughs.

“Fine, I’m going. You’re such a bully!”

I follow him into the bathroom and slip out through the other door as he reaches for his toothbrush. Letting him bathe first is tradition, even though I’m the early riser. He leaves such carnage in his wake that I’d have to clean up after him, anyway, and I’d rather go through the hassle of mopping up and drying towels only once.

The bathroom door opens.


In spite of myself, I smile. “What now?”

“I need the grey jacket back. Oh, and your white loafers. Did you clean them?”

We both ignore the irony of the messiest person on the planet asking the neat-freak whether she cleaned her shoes.

“Of course.”

He grins. “See, this is why you’re the absolute best.”

The door closes. Shaking my head, I walk to my wardrobe and pull out the requested items. I should be annoyed that he’s borrowing my shoes again; they’ll come back looking like they were ravaged by a wild animal, but it takes a lot of determination to stay angry with Khaya.

My own outfit for the day hangs on a hook behind my door, ironed and ready. Black jeans, white shirt, grey hoodie, grey sneakers. As long as we follow the dress code and stick to the school colours, they let us wear whatever we want.

I make my bed, prepare my books and spend ten minutes doing my breathing exercises. By the time I’m done my parents have left and Khaya is out of the bathroom. Time to face the day.


Because the universe is a kind and loving place (not), my first lesson is Media Science. The lesson begins with a rundown of the major headlines for the week, courtesy of Timeline, the only news network Mr Machada trusts. Usually I’m as eager as everyone else to pick apart the latest in politics and popular culture, but lately… Well, lately ignorance is bliss.

Lately the kids in school spend more time reading posts on True World Order than real news. Lately the noticeboards in public spaces feature more Parents for Equity flyers than adverts for ladies’ night at local clubs. Lately I feel more Lith, more alien, than ever before.

My body is tense as I walk into the classroom. I force myself to smile and greet my classmates like it’s all good and I’m not wondering whether any of them have murder in their hearts.

“You must be scared skinny,” says Dana, plonking herself into the seat beside me.

She’s sat next to me for two years. I think I’m slightly deaf in my left ear from her constant jabbering. I turn and look into her wide blue eyes.

“Why would I be scared?”

“Oh! Haven’t you heard?” She doesn’t even bother to whisper. “Some Lith kid was murdered last night! It’s all over the networks! What, did your phone die or something? How can you not know?” Without even taking a moment to gauge my reaction, she plunges on. “I would be wetting myself right now if I was a Lith. Everyone says it’s a hate crime for sure, and they don’t even know who did it. I read on The Watch that there’s an anti-Lith gang out there, planning a huge attack.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see that a few others have overheard and are waiting for me to chime in. They’re practically salivating, eager to hear my take on the savage murder of “some Lith kid”. Dana’s words run through my mind on a loop, and I wonder whether people were always this tactless, or whether it’s just our generation.

I roll my eyes, because as far as these NLs are concerned, I’m invincible. “You’ve been taking Media for two years and you still get your news from The Watch?” As I open my bag and pull out my tablet I shoot Dana a pitying glance. “Even if there is some bigoted gang out there, they know they can’t touch us. Why do you think they would pick on a scrawny kid walking around by himself? Look, Liths are pacifists. But…” I lift my shoulders in a shrug, hoping it comes off as nonchalant. “In a fair fight, we all know who would win.”

There’s a moment of sombre silence, and then:

“Man, she’s right.”

“Well, ja, but…”

“Come on, no one would really be stupid enough to take on the Liths. It’s just a rumour.”

“It doesn’t even make sense. Liths are good for the country.”

“Like she just said, they’re pacifists.”

“Hey, Khalani –”  

The final bell buzzes, ending the discussion. Mr Machada steps into the room and we all get settled for the lesson. My heart is a painful bass pump in my chest. I shouldn’t have let myself get drawn into that conversation. It was stupid, and remorse flows hot and fast through my blood, driving the adrenalin away. It doesn’t last, though.

The screen up front flickers and lights up and the first thing I see, beneath the familiar Timeline banner, is a photograph of a parking lot surrounded by police tape and the headline “Murder at the Mall”. The last string of hope I was clinging to vanishes. Timeline has verified it, and Timeline doesn’t lie.

My parents didn’t want me to take Media Science, even though it’s compulsory for all students in the Contemporary Community Dynamics stream. Mama even went behind my back and met with the Student Advisor to have me excused. She was assured that the curriculum was approved by the Health and Wellness Committee and wouldn’t harm my “fragile frame of mind”. Fragile, like I’m a baby bird.

“I’m going to assume you guys have already heard about this,” Mr Machada begins. We murmur in confirmation. “It’s terrible. No parent wants to read this kind of news, Lith or Non-Lith. My own daughter is almost the same age as the victim.” He pauses, and for a moment I see a different, more vulnerable side to him. “But remember, we need to focus on the facts, and that’s going to be difficult because the rumour mill is already churning. Tell me, what do we know so far?”

Hands go up all around me. I keep my arms folded on top of my desk.


“A Lith boy was walking home from the mall alone because he had no friends because his whole school is NL and he ran into an anti-Lith gang and they hit him once or twice to make sure he was Lith and when they saw that he was trying to take his shoes off they knew for sure…” Every other word is punctuated by a dramatic hand gesture, so he resembles some kind of frenetic robot dancer. “…So they stabbed him in the stomach fifteen times and the security guards let him bleed to death because one of them was rejected by a Lith girl and he asked the others to back him up and they were like, ‘Hundred per cent, bra’, so the guy just lay there and nobody helped him and… Ja.”

The class bursts into applause and wolf whistles.

Shaking his head, Mr Machada grins. “The news, brought to you by The Daily Demon.”

Everyone laughs, including Thando. I force a smile. I’ve been the only Lith in this class since Grade 9, but I have never felt more exposed.

“Anyone have any actual facts? Yes? Mikaila.”

“We know for sure that the boy was stabbed with a brand new knife from MPH, because the knife and the packaging were found at the scene, but there were no fingerprints.”

Mr Machada nods. “What else? Nozipho.”

“There were seven guards on duty, not eleven. The mall released a statement. And the reason the guards never saw the attack was because there was a shoplifter in one of the shops and the guards were chasing the thief.”

“Uh-huh. Jackson?”

“He was still alive when the guards found him and they called an ambulance, but he died before the ambulance could leave the mall. That’s also from the mall’s statement, confirmed by the medical rescue team.”

“Good. So I guess that means no heartbroken security guards with revenge on their minds.”

Everyone laughs again. One of the knots in my stomach loosens.

“Yes, Mmasechaba?”

“The victim had no money or stuff from the shops on him, only an empty wallet and a phone.”

“Good. And what can we conclude from these facts?” Mr Machada strokes his chin. No one answers, because we’re all used to his rhetorical questions. “Not much, correct? We don’t know who stabbed him because they were smart enough not to leave prints. We know that it’s likely they bought the knife that same day, since it was still in its packaging. It was an ordinary kitchen knife. The boy’s wallet was empty, so it could have been a robbery.”

“But he had his phone on him,” Dana points out.

“An early model, according to Timeline.” Mr Machada smiles. “Not the kind of phone people are rushing to steal. Right now we have no idea what happened in that parking lot. The whole nation is jumping to conclusions, but we’re smarter than that, eh? People are saying it’s a hate crime. Maybe it is, but there’s one very important hole in that theory. Anyone want to tell me what it is before we move on to the next topic?” He looks around the room. “Anyone?” Finally, his gaze comes to rest on me. “Khalani?”

Every head in the room swivels in my direction. I lick my lips and clear my throat.

“Uh, I don’t know. I only read the breaking story on my social feed. I haven’t had a chance to check the news networks.”

But he’s not about to let me off the hook. “Think about it. Based on what we’ve said so far, what do you think the major problem with the hate crime theory is?”

Anger surges inside me. Why won’t he leave me alone? I’ve always thought of Mr Machada as a cool teacher, but a cool teacher wouldn’t pick on me like this, knowing how close this story hits to home. I look into his eyes defiantly and see something I wasn’t expecting. Kindness, maybe, and suddenly I realise what he’s doing.

“We don’t know that he was a Lith,” I whisper, finally remembering the most important thing. I clear my throat again. “I mean, we weren’t there. We don’t know. Enlithiation isn’t visible to the naked eye, so even if he was absorbing ions as he lay there, no one would know. Until he’s identified, we can’t assume anything. He could have been anyone.”

The class has fallen silent as the morning’s most sensational story dissipates before our eyes.

Mr Machada smiles and nods. “And that, my friends, is an example of the power of the press.” He reaches for the remote and the image on the screen fades. “OK, next story.”

But I’m not listening anymore. There’s a chance that this was a random crime that has nothing to do with the anti-Lith sentiment building in the country. There’s a chance things will be fine, just like Baba said. All the tension drains out of me, and when my legs start to tremble I realise that I was more afraid than I thought. As I pull myself together and focus on the next story, I find myself hoping desperately that the boy was a NL. It’s not until we’re done with the news roundup that it occurs to me what a horrible thing that is to wish for.


By lunchtime the Mall Murder has blown up, leading to a number of heated debates and even, according to the grapevine, a fist fight. I sit in silence, eating my sandwich, while around me Khaya and his crew discuss the fight.

“Wait, wait, wait,” says Ama, Khaya’s long-time girlfriend, raising both hands. “So the NL threw the first punch, right?”

“No! Apparently the Lith struck first.” That’s Han. More on him later.


“There’s no way!”

“Hey, I’m just telling you what I heard. The NL said something snarky, the Lith tried to take the high road but the NL wouldn’t shut up. Next thing you know – POW! Thunder klap.”

Shocked laughter, a scandalised gasp and then, “But no. It can’t be true.”


“Who’s the Lith?”

“Some Grade 7 kid. Friggin’ dead man walking. Suspension for sure.”

“Forget suspension. What are his parents going to do to him?”

“You’re assuming a lot.”

Everyone turns to look at me, and it takes me a moment to realise I spoke out loud. Looking into five Lith faces isn’t quite the same as looking into five NL ones. First of all there are a lot of distractions. Ama’s glossy, pouty lips. Shelou’s sultry slanted eyes. Modiri’s purple-tinged, triple-peaked afro. Khaya’s soulful frown. Han’s sexier-than-thou smirk. And then there’s the fact that my usual bravado won’t work on them.

Ja?” says Han, leaning towards me and flicking the side of my lunchbox with his middle finger. “And what do you know about it?”

“I know that none of you were there.” I push my lunchbox to one side, away from him. “You’re assuming there was a physical fight. For all we know it could have been an argument. You’re assuming the Lith threw the first punch. And you’re assuming his family is affiliated. Maybe they’re not. Maybe they’ll be glad he stood up for himself.”

Han laughs. “Are you giving up your Olympic dream to be a lawyer like your mum?”

“She’s not a lawyer, jackass, she’s a judge,” says Shelou, as if Han doesn’t know. “And the child has a point. We should find out for sure. Ama, don’t you have a friend in Grade 7?”

I scowl at Shelou. I don’t know where she gets off calling me “the child”. I’m seven months older than her and one grade ahead.

“Lighten up, Lani.” Han gives me a nudge that’s too hard to be friendly. “Life’s not all training and common sense, you know. Don’t be so boring.”

“You didn’t always think she was boring,” says Shelou, and Ama pokes her.

Han shrugs. “I made her cool.”

Everyone protests loudly and Han looks at me, wide-eyed, realising he said something wrong but probably clueless as to why it was wrong. Typical.

“I’m kidding,” he says quickly. “You know I’m kidding, right?” He nudges me again and mouths “Delete?” so no one else will see.

But I’m not deleting a thing. Why can’t he apologise like a decent person? Oh, yes – because he’s not decent. I ignore him and carry on eating my food.

Khaya comes to wrap an arm around my shoulders and plant a kiss on my cheek. “Don’t mind him; he’s bitter,” he whispers. Even though I doubt it’s true, it makes me smile.

I’m not sure why I continue to hang out with Khaya’s friends. They let me tag along like I’m his annoying baby sister instead of his twin. I guess I could spend my lunch hour with the Lith Athletics team, but all they ever talk about is sports. Maybe I should be grateful. Khaya’s crew is the cream of the crop. Besides being brilliant, they are effortlessly cool. Stylish, commanding, real leader-of-the-future material.

I glance at the NL students scattered across the campus, some sitting on their own, others collected in groups like ours, and feel a familiar pang of envy. I wonder what it would be like to have a clique of my own. Not dazzling, talented, good-looking friends. Ordinary friends with ordinary problems. Friends who struggle with homework. Friends who have regular dreams like finishing school without incident, becoming decent, productive members of society and popping out a couple of kids. Not saving the world, but helping it keep spinning. The grunt work. There’s a lot to be said for those who do the grunt work, but Liths were born for greater things, as my dad always tells me.

Turning away from the NLs, I sneak a peek at Han. The twinge I feel whenever I look at him is slowly fading, and if he weren’t so damn hot it might be gone completely. He wears his battered leather jacket and metal-studded boots with the casual flair of the veteran playboy. Every month he has a new intricate hair tattoo; this time it’s a complex geometric print.

He turns suddenly, as though sensing my gaze on him, and our eyes meet. I have no idea what he’s thinking. That was always the trouble, along with his wandering eye, and hands, and attention. The showdown ends with Han breaking eye contact first, and I feel a thrill of triumph. Khaya and Ama have started nuzzling noses like cats, and Han protests by making loud retching noises.

“Don’t be jealous, Radebe,” says Shelou. At some point she moved from her place on the bench to Modiri’s lap.

I take a furtive peek over my shoulder, searching for teachers. Sure enough, there’s one striding towards us.

“Break it up, guys,” she calls out as she approaches.

“We’re not doing anything, Ms Reynolds,” Khaya protests, although Ama is still glued to his side.

Ms Reynolds sighs and points at Shelou. “Can you get off his lap, please? This is not a music video.”

“Human beings thrive on physical contact,” says Shelou, but does as she’s told. “It’s a primal need.”

“You can be primal in your own time. You know the rules; no canoodling on campus.”

“Canoodling?” cries Modiri in horror.

Shelou giggles.

Khaya offers the teacher a blinding grin. “We’re sorry. Won’t happen again.”

Even though she knows they’ll be “canoodling” the second she turns her back, Ms Reynolds softens immediately. “It’s fine, dear. Just be more mindful, OK?”

“Absolutely. Enjoy your lunch, Ms Reynolds.”

She retreats, and I swear there’s a slight spring in her step. Ama gazes up at Khaya in wonder.

“You’re amazing, baby.”

You’re amazing.”

“Aww, Khaya!”

Han groans. I roll my eyes and finish my sandwich. Look at us, the lucky ones. Young, gifted and Lith.


Athletics is my last lesson for the day. Khaya spends the afternoon in the studio, so I cycle home alone. I’m surprised to find the front door unlocked when I arrive, and I’m about to call out when I see my mother’s handbag lying on the table in the foyer and her shoes in the corner near the door.

I drop my school bag on the sofa and head to the kitchen to cook. Mama comes in from the garden, wiping her bare feet on the mat.

“Oh, it’s you.” She flashes a distracted smile. “Khaya in the studio?”

“Mhmm. What are you doing home so early?”

“I forgot my tablet. Can you believe it?” Shaking her head. “You can’t imagine the morning I’ve had, working with Sipho’s back-ups. I don’t even understand how he structures his notes. It’s like reading upside down. Where’s my bag now?”

“By the front door. Don’t you have a hearing today, Mama?”

“Yes, and the train leaves in twenty minutes. Imagine if I turned up late!” she says, walking across the floor towards the foyer.

As if that would ever happen. Mama is fastidious about everything. Her appearance, her work, her cleaning roster.

My parents always take the train to work. The 4×4 is only used on weekends. Mama says they use the train because they like the exercise and hate the traffic, but I think they do it because it’s what they’ve always done. For the longest time they lived in Baba’s student flat, too busy to spend their hard-earned money.

“I’m making chicken.”

“That sounds fine.” She comes back and stands in the doorway, sliding on her pumps. “Lani, my darling, you’ve put on weight.”

My hand freezes on the fridge door.

“It’s not a train smash, but you need to keep an eye on it. When are you running again?”

I’m always running. I’ve never stopped bloody running! Geez.

I take a deep breath. “Training starts week after next.”

“Hmm.” She frowns. “That’s too far. There’s no place for curves on the track, my love. I’ll give Sibanda a call; convince her to let you start on Monday.”

“Mama, I really don’t think –”

“I have to go, my darling. See you tonight!” And she’s off.

It takes every bit of willpower not to stop what I’m doing and run to the nearest mirror. Taking deep, steady breaths, I set out the ingredients for supper. I season the chicken and pop it in the oven, then put a pot of rice on the stove. I chop up vegetables for the relish and put them in a pan. Then, unable to wait another second, I dash to the bathroom, pull off my clothes and examine my figure in the mirror.

I see a body that most people would describe as athletic. Slim, strong, toned. The kind of body that easily fits into Khaya’s tailored trousers. The kind of body better suited to athleisure than lingerie. Curves? What curves? I wish I had curves. It’s hard to tell, but maybe my bra is a little snugger than it should be. Maybe my thighs could be sleeker. Then I get on the scale and it’s all the proof I need. I’ve gained two kilos.

I snatch my clothes off the floor, furious with myself for letting this happen, then furious with myself for being furious. I said I wasn’t going to be that person. “You’re a runner, not a ballerina.” Coach Sibanda’s words. I’m not supposed to be tiny and delicate. I’m supposed to be raw power.

As I change into my home clothes, I pump myself up with affirmations. “I’m a rushing river. I’m a leopard on the hunt, bunched muscle and killer instinct. I am not a flower. I am a wave.” Then I realise that I’m running on the spot, as if I could get rid of those two kilos in a matter of minutes.

Ag, damn it. I walk back to the kitchen. As I move towards the stove my phone buzzes and I stop to check it. It’s Khaya, and his message is only four words.

Mall victim ID’d. Lith.

And just like that, the world crumbles around me.





Who will cry when I go from here?

I wonder

Those who steal the earth right from under me?

Those who plunder?

Those who collate, calculate, study and measure?

Those in golden cloud castles that rain down heady dreams of pleasure?

Those who live for today in case there’s no tomorrow?

Those with hope to spare?

Those who barter and borrow?

Those who fall asleep world-weary and wake gasping for air?

Those who wander the afterlife, uncertain why they’re there?

Who will dig all these graves?

I wonder

We who discuss, examine and ponder?

We who end the road in a muffled wet clay shout?

We who do what we must to survive

To get out?

We who refuse the burden:

“It’s their job, not mine”?

We who forget we might be next in line?

We who think grand thoughts while our plans go awry?

We who choke on our silence

And splutter

And die?

I see it coming on light-streaked wheels of thunder

Who will cry when I go from here?

Will you?

I wonder.

Botho/Ubuntu: A dialogue with the Dalai Lama

At last! Something fantastic and historic is happening in Botswana (rather than our A-list neighbour South Africa, not that I’m jealous or anything). The Dalai Lama is paying us a visit, along with human rights experts, neuroscientists and spiritual leaders, to talk about the concept of Botho/Ubuntu and healing trauma in light of recent scientific discoveries. Botho/Ubuntu is about interdependence; essentially, the idea that each of us exists because others exist.

As a Buddhist, a believer in the power of dialogue and an African for whom the notion of interdependence is culturally ingrained, I’m really excited about this and want as many people to experience it as possible. Just saying, this is a good time to visit Botswana. Wildlife, sunshine, starry skies, insightful conversation and the Dalai Lama.

The event is hosted by the Mind & Life Institute and will be held at the University of Botswana. Tickets are on sale now until Friday, 7 July, at

Here are more details from the press release:

In a statement, the Dalai Lama said, “My dear friend Archbishop Desmond Tutu has told me about the beautiful African notion of Botho/Ubuntu, which means “I am because you are.” This resonates powerfully with the ancient Indian idea of interdependence. In participating in the Mind & Life Dialogue, as well as meeting and talking with members of the public, I hope to gain a clearer understanding of this idea and explore ways in which it may help promote compassion and understanding in our world.”

Defining humanity through our connections with one another, Botho/Ubuntu is a view that is reflected also in the Dalai Lama’s teachings. Examining African values and healing practices in light of new scientific research on social connection and trauma, the Mind & Life Dialogue in Botswana explores the potential of Botho/Ubuntu as a framework for healing the legacy and trauma of wars and colonialism, and advancing social justice and women’s equality.

The conference is open to the general public with discounted tickets available to students and Botswana youth (ages 15 – 35). Please note that all ticket holders will receive a security clearance prior to the conference, so tickets must be purchased by 7 July.

Topics to be presented during the conference include:

  • I am because you are: A scientific perspective on interdependence.
  • Botho as a basis for intergenerational dialogue.
  • The biology of care and conflict in groups.
  • The history and contemporary frame of Ubuntu/Botho.
  • Traditional healing practices and the restoration of unity in environment and society.
  • Oppression and violence against women: Cultural practices and community support.
  • Goodness: Exploring the meaning of Ubuntu.
  • Emotional trauma and how it affects the brain.
  • The human capacities and challenges of Sub-Saharan Africa.

Thupten Jinpa, Chair of the Mind & Life Institute’s Board of Directors and the principal English interpreter to the Dalai Lama since 1985, described the upcoming conference in Gaborone as “an historic opportunity for the people of Africa to benefit from the unique wisdom of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, as he encounters profound issues of modern African society through the lens of Botho/Ubuntu. Guided by presentations and conversations with an international panel of experts, the conference will bravely explore African issues, from its sacred pre-colonial history to the importance of gender equality, healthy communities and peaceful coexistence.”

 The Dalai Lama is the spiritual leader of the Tibetan people and is an internationally revered proponent of secular ethics, inter-religious harmony and human happiness. He is co-author with Archbishop Desmond Tutu of the best-selling “Book of Joy.” He is also the recipient of the 1989 Nobel Peace Prize for his message of nonviolence, reconciliation and reverence for all living beings.

 Mind & Life Dialogues with the Dalai Lama began in 1987 as intimate conversations with leading scientists and scholars to develop an understanding of the mind in relation to human behavior. These conversations have since grown to include large public and private events addressing critical issues of modern life at the intersection of scientific and contemplative understanding.

The Mind & Life Institute is a nonprofit organization founded in 1991, providing grant funding for research projects and think tanks, and hosting academic conferences and Dialogues with the 14th Dalai Lama. Its mission is to alleviate suffering and promote flourishing by advancing the interdisciplinary field of contemplative sciences, deepening understanding of the mind, and promoting evidence-based applications of meditative practices in real-world contexts.

Deep Down You Know You Need Me

 How immigration is like a bad relationship

It all begins with a casual flirtation, a playful “maybe”. You like the idea of her, and you’re almost certain she likes you back. You’ve never been there before, but why not? Life is short and you want adventure. And something about her speaks to you, calls to you, makes you think, Yep. That’s where I need to be. Maybe you’re driven by desperation, by the need to flee a dysfunctional relationship where your life is in actual peril. Or maybe you just want a change of scenery, or more opportunities, a chance at the life you always dreamed of.

As soon as you arrive, your world changes. The air smells fresher and everything is new and exciting. You feel like you have never walked such beautiful, soulful streets, seen such well-defined architecture, experienced such passionate culture, tasted such delicious food. You are safe and deliriously happy. Everything about her makes you giddy, flooding your brain with chemicals that make you want to stay forever. This is it, you tell yourself. This is home.

For a while it’s all good. You take moonlit strolls, hand-in-hand, breathing easy. Love doesn’t have to hurt, after all. Hurray! All your previous nationalities fall away. They were just dress rehearsals. All the pain has led you here, and this is where you belong. You fall into step with each other, find a comfortable rhythm.

And then, as the honeymoon period draws to a close, you start to notice things. Little things at first, like the fact that those soulful streets might not be as safe as you thought, and that passionate culture can also be oppressive and cruel. But nobody’s perfect, right? You’re not about to throw away a perfectly decent country just because of a few teeny tiny flaws.

Sooner or later, you reach the point where you have to account for yourself. Your beloved has put up with you for a while, maybe a couple of years, and now she can’t remember what she loves about you. You have to remind her, in detail. You have to sell yourself once more, show her how attractive and talented and brilliant you are, how loving, how good at stroking her ego. You want me here, you tell her. You need me. She hems and haws and says, yeah, OK. And you walk hand-in-hand a few more years.

But then, one day, your beloved shows her claws. Maybe you’re not the victim, not yet. Maybe she’s being nasty to someone else, someone like you but not quite. You could speak out, but you don’t want to be that person who makes a fuss, so you keep your head down, grateful that you weren’t the target. She loves me, you tell yourself. She’d never treat me that way. That person must have had it coming.

Account time rolls around again, and once more you have to justify your presence in your beloved’s sacred space. And maybe this time you think, this is silly. I can’t spend the rest of my life periodically explaining why I deserve to be here. So you do what many people do at this stage in a relationship – you try to make it permanent. If you’re very, very lucky, she accepts your proposal. If you’re even luckier, you live happily ever after because her folks love you and her snooty friends think you’re cute.

But maybe, despite being official, you will always be treated like you don’t belong. She might even respond with a resounding NO which fills you with despair. After all these years? After all you’ve given? You’ve been the model lover. What more does she want? If you don’t like it, she tells you, then leave. But leaving is not an option. You think back to your former lovers, the ones who left you bleeding, and you think, nope. Better a broken heart than a broken jaw.

There are a thousand and one reasons to stay. Beggars can’t be choosers. Better the devil you know. Life is much better here than out there. Lesser evils, and all that. All those things are true and valid. If your only choices are death and disenfranchisement, there is no real choice. You tell yourself whatever you have to so you can survive, so you can get through the day. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never…

Really, though? Really? You know, underneath the adopted patriotism and fierce, stubborn love, that abuse is still abuse. Love comes in many forms, yes. Absolutely, yes. But monsters come in many forms, too.



Skeleton Song

I want to go home.

I am a traveller, a visitor of worlds, swimming in vast oceans of light and song and memory. I love my travels, for they make me wealthy beyond measure. But wealth is heavy. Sometimes you want to sit and go through your pretty things, admire the way the light glints off their polished surfaces. But other times you want to put them away, cut the rope and let yourself float away.

I want to go home.

I long for the familiar scent of damp earth and the promise of more rain, the taste of the air, the sound of voices I know. I long to sleep in my own bed and wear my own clothes and open my eyes to stare at my own ceiling.

I want to go home.

And I want it to feel like home when I get there, not like something I knew lifetimes ago, some stolen half-remembered treasure, some word on the tip of my tongue that I will never quite catch no matter how hard I try. I want it to feel like home, and it won’t. Ever. You can’t borrow someone’s soul and wear it on your back like a jacket. You will always know it doesn’t fit. You can lie to the world, but you will know, and the truth will burn you.

I want to go home…

…But there is no home to go to. So what must I do? I must craft a new home from the threads of stories, from the snippets of conversation I stole from elders in my childhood, from my blood, and bones, and the things I know in the deepest parts of me, the parts too dark to be civilised and too pure to be chained.

What is lost is lost, and wanting will not bring it back.

I wrestle with this giant truth, kicking and biting and drawing blood. Every night we dance like this, like ravenous warriors, like silent predators. And every morning, weary with death and tears and unravelling, I burrow deep into this truth and let it soothe me, because it is my friend, and my nightmare, my angel and my nemesis. I must love it, and loathe it, and live with it. I must bear it because as much as it pains me, as much as I grieve…

…It is true.

The First and Final Warning

Be careful, friend.

You are too loud in quiet spaces, too eager to reveal your ignorance. You think weaving words is something any fool can do because your cousin’s boyfriend’s sister woke up yesterday and is now – Ta-da! – a wordsmith.

Listen. I am very glad for your cousin’s boyfriend’s sister. The discovery of one’s voice is something to be celebrated, always. But let me alert you to your mistake, for your own good, so you never repeat it.

You must show respect. Don’t argue. Don’t play with things you do not comprehend. Don’t tell me everyone is a writer deep down underneath, for while we are all engineers also, you will never catch me telling someone how to build a bridge.

Listen, friend, before you slip and fall and break useful things.

You think half-assing your way through the sacred space of stories is nothing, because no one taught you how to respect words, or whispers, or secret spirit places. Never mind. I am here now. I will teach you.

While you played marbles I created worlds in the back of my school exercise book. While you tried on one “calling” after another, discarding them like torn hand-me-downs, I was deep in the belly of the universe, swimming in tales the likes of which your mind could not possibly conjure.

Words have made me a fire than never goes out. I am a warrior, born to this, bred for it. I am a storm. Don’t step into my arena and try to wound me with pebbles. You will fail. You will falter, and I will not help you up.

Be courteous, friend. If you are not…

I will write you into a corner.

I will write you into a deep, dark hole and bury you in splendour. I will break you apart in a thousand wonderful ways until you bleed words, until I have made you a mage, until all that is glorious in you unravels into glistening threads sticky with story sap, and you are utterly undone.  And you will thank me, because you will not understand. You will be so grateful to be suffocated by the sheer wonder of words that you will not even know when it’s all over.

Be wary of those who do what you cannot, for we are all magicians and our spells are not the same. There are wonders all around us, wonders and weapons, and people who know how to wield them.

I am very, very watchful, friend, among those I do not understand. Mouth shut, eyes open, pen at the ready.

Be watchful, too.

Be careful.


Hey. Wake up.


Wake up! We were not born blind.

We were not born…what?

We were born with eyes that see through the backs of our heads, eyes that swivel round in our skulls and look past the curvature of time. But somewhere along the way They gave us frosted glasses that turned everything hazy.

Who are They?

I don’t know. The Man, or Society, or the gremlins in our heads. It doesn’t matter who They are.


Listen. Our souls know what we used to see. Our souls know in that funny way that souls do, that prickle on the back of the neck way, that nagging pull in the belly way. Our souls know the world is bigger than They tell us.

And yet…

Yes? Say it.

And yet we feel as though the walls are closing in. When we see one of our own do well we’re filled with fierce pride followed by a pang of sadness because now that she’s done it, we can’t.


We wish we didn’t feel that way. We wish we didn’t think, “There’s already one of us doing that. Better try something else.” We wish we didn’t bend and twist and try to find new spaces because all the other ones are taken. We wish we didn’t think there was only room for one barrier-breaker.

And yet…

Yes? Say it.

And yet stories are infinite. If every soul that had ever lived had told a thousand tales, there would still be room for more. We know this. We know it in our blood. We know there can never be too many.

But our minds see closing doors and barred windows because, despite #BlackGirlMagic, in the cramped quarters of the real world Black Girl can only do so much. “We like you, but we’ve filled our diversity quota. Maybe next time. Keep trying.”

Keep trying? No, thank you. You had your chance to dance with us and now we’re moving on.

We don’t want to feel small anymore. We don’t want to drink the potion. We want to remember that opportunity is just a word.

Yes. Yes. Walls are imaginary. We don’t need anyone to give us a chance, a leg up, a stamp of approval. We can make our own opportunities. We can be our own champions. Magicians don’t ask for permission to shine. Whoever They are, we can dance dizzy circles around Them on Their best days. Why do we cower and grovel as if we haven’t learned how to wield our gifts?

Ah, how we wish we could be that fearless! That certain. We wish we didn’t let those frosted lenses trip us up. We wish we didn’t lose the knowledge of our self-worth somewhere between leaving the desk and reaching the door.

We ARE fearless. We are certain.

We are blind…

Yes. But here’s the thing about glasses: we can take them off. Wake up! We were not born blind.


I am weak. I am damaged and ridiculous. I am a coward. I know this because I have been told, in words and gestures, in disdainful expressions, in mocking laughter. Yet I know this to be both a profound truth and a wicked lie. I am broken but intact, messed up but well-adjusted. I am human.

Humanity is a complex thing; it manifests in different ways in each of us. We have outgoing humans and withdrawn humans, confident humans and anxious humans, aggressive humans and soft-hearted humans. It’s pretty cool, actually. What’s not cool is the way we forget what it means to be human in so many of our interactions.

There’s a saying that implores us to be kind to everyone because we don’t know what they’re facing.  We’re all in the same boat, waging our private wars, but we pretend otherwise. We’re always talking about how hard it is to trust people. We write books and sing songs about losing trust, breaking trust, earning trust, as if it is a precious gem we carry close to our hearts.

It makes no sense, because every single day we trust people we don’t know with various aspects of our lives. At the bank, at the hospital, in the bus, at the office. We let strangers educate our children, control how we access our money, tend to our cars, computers and other tools, make our food and manage our health, yet we find it so difficult to trust each other with the painful truth we all have in common – the fact that we all fear something.

We can’t tell the people around us when we’re not OK. When we need help, or space, or reciprocity. We can’t tell them because we are afraid they will judge us. Yet it never occurs to us to worry that the chef at the restaurant will poison our food, that the bank teller will run off with our money, or that schoolteachers will kidnap our kids. We are so brave and yet so cowardly. We jump out of helicopters and drive drunk and shove various poisons down our throats. We conquer nature and professional obstacles and people who stand in our way. Physical threats don’t faze us. Psychological threats, on the other hand, are almost too much to bear.

My struggle has always been anxiety. The list of things that trigger it is long and baffling, even to me. Crowds. Big houses. Tunnels. Camping. Immigration offices. Dense vegetation. Giant trees. Open water. Certain kinds of spiders. Sudden schedule changes. Social gatherings involving more than ten people. Public speaking. Horror films. Trailers for horror films. Clowns (Thank you, Stephen King). Swarms of insects. Things that resemble swarms of insects. Bedrooms with more than four corners. Open cupboards. Sinks full of dishes. Meeting new people. Conflict. Borrowing or lending money. Driving, especially at night. Sleeping in a new place.

People respond to my anxiety in the only way they can. When they tell me to toughen up, to be more aggressive, to “stand up for” myself, they’re trying to help. They fling logic at me as if I don’t know that the spider won’t hurt me or the walls aren’t really closing in, and despite their good intentions it only makes me worse. So I don’t tell them. I hide. I lie. I suffer in silence.

And yet we all know what it’s like to be so afraid that we can barely move.  We know all too well how our chests contracts until it’s hard to breathe, and our stomachs knot up, and for hours after the panic passes we still feel a little sick. We know how hard it is to keep it together, to cover it up so people won’t think less of us. We know sometimes  we have to escape to a quiet place, the bathroom, the parking lot, the space behind the stairs, to perform some trick that calms us down. We take deep breaths or count backwards. We pray, or meditate, or give ourselves a pep talk. We tune out those vibrant, happy, sane people who have it all figured out, and we never stop to wonder who, exactly, those people are and whether they are nothing more than a myth.

We are all broken. We are all weak, and damaged, and ridiculous. We are all cowards. In those moments when we can’t understand someone else’s fear, we should try to remember our own. Remember what it feels like. Remember that we are human, and that ultimately it’s better to feel too much than too little. And when our own fear threatens to overwhelm us, maybe we can remember the fear of others. Remember that they are just as insecure. That maybe they don’t know how to help us. That they are doing the best they can.

We can try to understand – ourselves and each other. We can say what we feel rather than what we think people want to hear. We can ask people what they need instead of telling them what we want to offer. We can be open.  We can do, in our intimate conversations and everyday relationships, what we do so easily in banks, restaurants and car-washes. We can make trust our default setting. We can give each other the benefit of the doubt.

We can be brave.

Heart Over Matter

They say it’s so hard to love that only the select few can manage it, or only mothers, or preachers, or ascetics, or blah blah blah. What BS. It’s not difficult to love unconditionally; that’s the only love there is.  It’s not difficult to be kind, to put yourself in someone else’s shoes, to try, even for a minute, to see the world from another perspective. It seems difficult because we buy into the narrative, the same way we think we could never climb a mountain until an ailing octogenarian does it.

I’ve never met a straight-up villain. They abound in fiction, gossip, news and our egocentric fantasies, but rarely in real life. Why do we keep perpetuating the myth of elusive compassion? How do we expect anyone to make an effort if all we ever say is that the odds are stacked against us? In my experience people want to do the kind thing far more than the mean thing, but our programming says love is hard and we’re only human. So we do the mean thing, which takes up far more energy and psychological space.

All I hear every day is how rotten the world is, so even though I want to hug you I’m going to fold my arms until the urge fades. It’s stupid and painful. We need to stop talking about how awful everyone is and how tough it is to be loving. It’s a lot more difficult to cut ourselves off from our innate desire to connect. Most people have good intentions, but we need them to be monsters for the purposes of whatever dramatic story we want to tell ourselves.

I don’t know about this dog-eat-dog world people talk about. In my world everyone’s brushing stardust off their unicorns. Sometimes they miss a few grains. Sometimes the unicorns bite. Sometimes Strawberry Volcano spews scalding hot chocolate sauce and everybody has to run. But hey, life goes on. As far as I can see, we have to actively stop ourselves from being kind, so maybe let’s just…not. Not put up that wall. Not reinforce the ludicrous notion that social creatures that crave contact don’t WANT to connect. It’s absurd and dishonest and dangerous.

Every day we do awesome things. Raise children, make art, run marathons, build relationships, overcome illness and heartache, serve our communities, achieve various goals. If we can do any of that, we can definitely embody more compassion than a monk on a mountaintop. We don’t need to fake it; we need to get rid of the pile of junk that blocks the way.

It’s not hard. Just pick up a broom and start sweeping.

Irreconcilable Differences

Dear Anger,

We need to talk.

I have loved you obstinately for as long as I can remember. I have fed you with news I need not have entertained, stories I need not have read, energy better served lauding what is good. We have lain awake long nights together, intertwined in our dizzy, youthful passion, so sure, so outraged, so right.

I see you, Anger. I know all your twisted machinations, your helpless despair, your tear-stained hiding place under the stairs. I know you deeper and better than I ever wanted to. You are mighty and fierce, a storm we all must weather, but I confess that at last I am weary of you. You are heavy and I am old. You are bloated with the pain of all ages, all things, all worlds. My back is breaking. I want to dance again, and there is no dancing with you, except the mad, shrieking convulsions of the dying. I am tired of your indignation, your borrowed horror, your boiling, blistering blood.

This is where I lay you down, burden of my ancestors, inherited fury, impotent and backward-glancing. This is where I stop, and breathe, and live again.  This is where I say, enough.

You have served me as best you could. You have taught me things, cruel, vicious, necessary things, and I am grateful. I will not forget. But I must keep walking, and you cannot follow. You are not honour. You are not justice. You are a frail and desperate thing trapped in a cage, craving company. I know you believe that only you can make things right, but you are wrong. You are all temper and bruises and burned bridges. You don’t play fair. You break things, and I want to build them.

For so long I followed you blindly, convinced that condemning the cracks was a worthier cause than strengthening the foundation. But why waste energy trying to tear down the prison when I can craft a key? Why despair over a world I loathe when I can help create a world worth loving?

Oh, Anger, stop crying your crocodile tears. We both know you’ll forget me the moment I’m gone. The world is full of young, naive hearts just waiting for you to break them. They will fall hard. We all do. We can’t help it.

Maybe one day we will learn how to do without you. Until then…try not to rip too many worlds apart.

Goodbye and good riddance,

Your former lover