"Rode, Linda - I, A Living Arrow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rode Linda)

Grade 11 - Westerford High, Rondebosch, Cape

When one mentions the words "New South Africa" to foreigners, they
probably think that everybody gets on very well with everybody else,
and that Black and White get along very well indeed. South Africa is
currently being presented as a country which has undergone a com-
plete change. But foreigners don't know what happens to some of us
Blacks in this country. We are still being treated as before - we are still
being called vulgar names such as "kaffir".

Nomthetho Ntshoko
Grade 11 - Westerford High, Rondebosch, Cape

Isabel Carstens - Frank Joubert Art Centre

The tin cup

Heidi Swan

It's a shit place, this. Both inside and outside. The grass is thick, the
chrome number two hangs skew, the post-box is broken, the wall needs
a paint job. Faded Novilon, cracks full of Polyfilla, broken tiles, broken
plugs, the carpet's edges fraying, the bathroom light full of mosquitoes
and gnats. Lion Lager, Coke, brandy and old Viennas in the fridge,
that's all. Cockroaches. Dad lies in his room, rotting in his own sweat
and breath. Yes, it's a shit place, this. But it hasn't always been like this.

I am five. "Southern Districts' Cue-Ball Champion 1972," Dad reads
the letters on the silver cup to me. Again he tells me the story of him
and Johnny Grey. Black ball wins. And with "a shot that has never been
recorded in the books before", Dad brought the trophy home. "Yes,
Boet. You must just have a bit of guts. Take the pressure, then you can
make it anywhere."

I am nine. I have lost against WimpieViljoen. I didn't see the hole in
the tar. One moment I felt the sweat on the handlebars and then sud-
denly I got a mouth full of gravel and dust. Something is broken and
the front wheel of the bike is buckled. I go and fetch dad's Cue-Ball
Cup from the top of the TV and I know, next time there'll be nothing
left ofViljoen. I'd rather not tell Dad.

I am fourteen. My left eye is swollen. My ribs are sore. Momberg hit
me real hard. Scum! Called Dad and me names! If De Wet and who-
ever the other one was, hadn't pulled us apart, it would have been an-
other story. But Cue-Ball is there. I lightly touch the stained silver. And
then I know everything will be okay. Dad laughs at my eye.

I am fifteen. I see how the number nine on Tommie Laubser's back
is getting smaller. I look down at my togs. The teacher's hand is on my
shoulder: "Don't worry. Next game. Next game." Only later, when I stroke