“I truly enjoyed every moment I spent reading this. It was an experience I didn't want to end. I'd love to know - what inspired you to write such a phenomenal story? And do you have a trailer that showcases this masterpiece? I'd love to see it!” Macyunusexp on Wattpad 

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“The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.” Marcus Aurelius

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"When two opposing points of view are defended with equal vigor, the truth does not necessarily lie in the middle. One side may simply be wrong." Richard Dawkins

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"The uncontrolled self is the source of all personal suffering. Control the self and you control the world." James Keating

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"The world is constantly filling up with entities that can survive well and is being liberated from those that cannot," says Richard Dawkins. Societies are communities of information carriers. They only survive as long as they have the strength to change. In the interim of survival, diversity is the only constant.

Bush Camp – The African Adventure

We pitched our camp at the edge of a hollow. The heat barely relented; the ground still glowed. In the last light, dust shimmered like gold. Acacias clawed at the soil, their shadows resembling script.

It was my first African bush camp. Under Samuel’s guidance we built a windbreak from stones. He lit a fire; grilled fish, maize flatbreads, cassava. The smoke hung heavy and sweet in the air.

We withdrew. After hours of restraint, you were eager to touch me. I offered you my breast; you were like someone dying of thirst.

“I wish I could say: you smell like home,” though we didn’t yet have a home together.

I came quietly, not to disturb the wild night. You brought me back with scarcely more than a hand on my lower back. From the very beginning, that was what made it special: how little you needed to claim me.

Later I lay on my stomach and felt the land breathing. How much I pleased you.

The events of the night—your forehead against mine.

Just now I see you in a shebeen. That’s what unlicensed bars are called in South Africa. Dust-blinded windows. A pool table with rotting felt, the squeak of chalk on the cue. An old radio perched on a chest-high cooler.

Then we were on the road again. After hours of uniform vastness we stopped at a place that hardly deserved to be called a petrol station: a concrete block, a single tap run dry. A foul mix of diesel, chlorine, and fatigue hung in the air. The toilet was a room without a door, the floor wet. I asked no questions.

“I’ve seen worse,” our guide said.

In the shade an old man sat on a plastic chair, guarding a few sacks. He looked at us without curiosity, without judgment—as if we were just another apparition in a long, dusty afternoon.

The road existed only as an idea. We followed a red trail of dust that vanished into the shimmering heat. To the left and right, termite mounds.

I skip a dozen absurd moments. Finally we stopped at the edge of a wooded hollow. The land glowed. In the last rays of the sun, rust-red dust shimmered like gold. Vegetation had settled here in a bowl-shaped depression, impressed into the relief as if a giant had once rested there in primeval times. I sensed the place as a secret reservoir of wilderness. In the hollows grew camelthorn acacias, their branches splayed theatrically. With the help of my field guide I identified bush islands of blackthorn and sicklebush. Shepherd’s trees stood scattered. Between them, Stipagrostis grass—sharp-edged and straw-colored. A few mopane. I photographed the species and composed phrases in my head for my travel diary.