BrightLights@BookBuddy

The Police are Coming by  Keamogetsi Joseph Molapong + Look about you And be wary of them They are coming in uniforms Stained fresh with the blood of a young Man they had just murdered in full public view In cold blood with no remorse nor respect for life + Watch them come In numbers, with muscles Filled with hate and disillusionment Armed to the teeth by the taxpayer and Paid from state coffers bled dry by police State machinery, ready to insult, maim and kill + Forget about Chapter 3 Strip yourself of all human rights Burn your constitution for the police Are above the supreme law of the country Remove Article 11 from basic police training Institute fear and hopelessness in the community + The police are coming Criminals and civilians alike Are running, scattering into silence Current and currently axed lovers and wives Crippled by fear, by government-funded guns Taking aim, spitting fire, piercing flesh, fast-tracking

''Many of you may think I'm doing this to draw attention to myself...so be it.'' When I was a small child, about four or five years old, my uncle used to come to my grandmother's house with his friends to drink alcohol. One day, one of his friends took me into the kitchen, unzipped his pants, took out his ''thing'' and asked me if I knew what it was. I nodded my head because, obviously, I wasn't a baby anymore. He then lifted up my dress and tried to rape me, there, in the kitchen, at the sink. Fortunately, my great-grandmother, who walked with great difficulty, moved from her own into my grandmother's bedroom, he heard her moving about the house, and stopped. He fastened his pants and instructed me not to tell anyone... A year after that incident, a family friend who had stayed for a while with my parents, came to stay at my grandmother's, where I lived. As a small child, I was fascinated by his hair; he had the most beautiful

I Am An African I am an African Not because I was born there But because my heart beats with Africa's I am an African Not because my skin is black  But because my mind is engaged by Africa I am an African Not because I live on its soil But because my soul is at home in Africa When Africa weeps for her children My cheeks are stained with tears When Africa honours her elders My head is bowed in respect When Africa mourns for her victims My hands are joined in prayer When Africa celebrates her triumphs My feet are alive with dancing I am an African For her blue skies take my breath away And my hope for the future is bright I am an African For her people greet me as family And teach me the meaning of community I am an African For her wildness quenches my spirit And brings me closer to the source of life When the music of Africa beats in the wind My blood pulses to its rhythm And I become the essence of sound When the

Book Buddy in Liliencron street, Eros, Windhoek, is now a stockist of Animalogy: About Wild Animals by Enid Milton.  Meet the Author Enid Milton was born in England and educated at grammar school in High Wycombe. Because her parents were poor, she was forced to leave school at the age of sixteen (16).  Enid says that, as a consequence, she did everything late in life; she became a college student at 28, obtained her B. A. degree at 48, got married at 50 and started writing stories and poetry for children after retiring at age 60.  After leaving school and finding employment, Enid worked at bookkeeping and managing accounts for twelve (12) years, before realising a longstanding ambition to enter the teaching profession. She enrolled for a teacher training course at Whitelands College in London and taught at a primary school for two (2) years, thereafter.  Next, Enid became a missionary. After a year's training at a missionary college in Birmingham, she was posted to Nami

Vuilspel is 'n kontemporêre roman en beeld uit die kwessies rondom geweldsmisdaad, die gemeenskap se standpunt teenoor minderheidsgroepe soos die LGBTQ-gemeenskap, en 'n tipiese polisie-ondersoekeenheid in 'n tipiese Suid-Afrikaanse voorstad.  Die openingsparagraaf van Wyngaard se misdaadroman neem die leser reguit na die moordtoneel. 'n Wrede ontnugtering wag egter op die ondersoekbeampte, Kaptein Nicola ''Nicci'' de Wee; die slagoffer is 'n geliefde vriendin en dit raak spoedig haar taak om die moordenaars op te spoor en aan die kaak te stel. Vir Nicci, op die koop toe bruin en lesbies, is dit geen eenvoudige taak nie. Uitgelewer aan al die elemente wat polisiewerk in hedendaagse Suid-Afrika beduiwel - regstellende aksie, lae moraal in die polisiemag en apatiese gemeenskappe - moet sy boonop 'n skouer aan die geliefdes van die vermoorde Thandi bied.  Die verhoudings en verbande tussen die karakters is, myns insiens, bykans onge ë wenaard

I finished reading The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Australian author, Heather Morris, last night, and...it's a touching love story. As a literary romance, it isn't remarkable, nowhere near the opening paragraphs of Wuthering Heights nor The Unbearable Lightness of Being but it was unique in its setting and milieu, that is, the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp in Poland, during the Second World War. I decided to read Morris' book because it was, and still is, sliding up and down global bestseller lists. After having read it, I'd also like to propose an alternate title (or subtitle) namely, A Digestible Version of Auschwitz for the Faint-hearted because this was precisely my impression of the book; that it offered readers a diluted and softened view of a brutal Nazi concentration camp. This is Auschwitz: the Valentine's edition. The Tattooist of Auschwitz tells the story of Lale and Gita who had met at Auschwitz and fell in love. Both were Slovakian Jews.

Once upon a time, not very long ago, there lived a brave and clever dog in a village in the Omusati Region of Namibia.  His name was Nashipolo and he lived in a cosy hut  with Mama Alina and little Rakkel.  The hut was surrounded by  omusati trees with high branches covered by green leaves. The leaves looked like the wings of mopane moths.  Nashipolo went everywhere with his family.  He went to church with Mama Alina and Rakkel. He went to the shop with them. He went to the clinic with them. He walked along with Mama Alina, and little Rakkel on her back, to fetch water from the nearby well. Mama Alina gave Nashipolo food and clean water to eat and drink, every day. He was healthy and happy. Nashipolo was important to Mama Alina and Rakkel. He had sharp eyes that could see in the dark. He had a big nose that could smell far. He had big ears that could hear the softest sounds. He had a big, loud bark. He had a long, hairy tail for good balance. Nashipolo ha

    I received a book for Christmas from a retired English lecturer. I admire her, tremendously, for many reasons more especially for her personal library collection consisting of more than a thousand books. The week before Christmas last, she pressed an orange-covered paperback into my hand, wished me a happy festive season and announced that she was off for the upcoming holidays.    My Christmas book gift was The Ambassador by the late South African author, Andre P. Brink (1935 - 2015). It was first published in the United Kingdom in 1967, at the height of the pulp fiction era, when Brink was in his early thirties. He wrote in his author's note that '' The Ambassador was the result of my first prolonged exposure to Paris as a student (1959 - 1961)...'' but, what struck me and piqued my interest was the book's dedication, three words floating in the centre of a yellowed pulp page,  ''In memoriam, Ingrid'' .*    The Ambassador 's plot