a season of faith’s perfection



They were good times,


And when I think back,

It’s always sunny,

With a slight breeze of course,

And we’re driving down the highway,

The broad freeway,

With the sun out and the windows open,

The rays landing on the dashboard and the seats and the mid-console,

Rays of sunlight on my arms,

And the breeze was cool and then warm,

Sometimes we would be driving off the freeway,

On some lesser road,

Winding through the farms,

Green all round,

And there would be farms and small holdings,

Plots with animals,

But mostly the sugar cane fields,

We would be playing loud house music,

My friends and I,

Dj Ganyani, Dj Fresh, Dj Mbuso, Dj Tira,

The music would blare from the speakers,

Clear from the tweeters in the front and booming from the 6 x 9s in the rear,

There were pretty girls involved,

Pretty young girls always looking to have a good time,

And we loved a good time, me and my boys,

That is what comes to me when I think of the good times in Durban,

Not a thing, not a person, not a place,

This was a time, a season,

Before life turned,

We were young enough to hope and be faithful,

Faith was what we had,

A belief in the universe and our place in it,

What it held for us,

Away from us then,

Just out of reach,

But in wait for us nonetheless,

We were riding the written script,

Dancing in anticipation,

Patient as we were,

And dutiful too,

We were well on time,

It was a period of hope,

Hope in the future,

And trust in the world,

Trust that it would yield from its bounty,

And things would come to be – as they were written,

A time would come to sit down and settle,

This was not it,

That time was still to come,

And when it came,

It would go by the script,

And so we had good times,

In our rickety little Citi Golf we painted Durban sky blue,

All we needed was a bed to lie in and a means to get around,

We had that and we lived and let live,

It was a season of faith’s perfection,

When we gleefully turned away and did not see what displeased us,

A time was to come, when it would be necessary to look at such things,

Time now was clear,

Open, with the necessary behind us,

And the future a distant way ahead,

A season presented itself,

An opening,

To live and connect and fully enjoy,

When it was a blessing to be and sleep was a necessary interruption,

With no grave matters to dull them,

The senses were sharp and receptive,

And the music flowed in and resonated and tingled with abandon,

The dancing had no restrictions,

And the passion heightened and burst and flowed spiritedly,

Splashing around gaily,


And we would throw on shorts and t-shirts and drive off to the beach,

The stifling humid heat in the heart of Durban,

Where the beer was on ice and the pretty girls were scantily clad,

And they would walk past and flirt and dance away,

And if we followed, they would let us,

 When we danced with them they looked right into our eyes and sometimes whispered into our ears,

And we would drink the night away,

And dance within it,

A circle would soon form and it got heated,

And if one dared, one would jump in and have their moment,

When the sky lit up in the east,

Over the ocean’s edge, an orange glow,

We would pack in tightly,

The girls and us,

And we would head back onto the freeway and drive back out of town,


Heads would be nodding and bodies would be drunk,

But spirits were soaring as ever,

And no rest was to be had,

Certain matters still demanded and received due attention,


A car driving along the broken hillside,

Early in the morning mist,

Loud house music bouncing off the valley floor,

Disturbing the peace,

That was before it all ended,

Before life drifted away from the script,

And the script would not be re-written,

Before the contradictions set in and your script veered off from this script and their script for you,

Before the deadlines and milestones loomed,

Then arrived,

Then passed,

And your life looked across the chasm at the script floating hopelessly away,

Season’s end,

And in an instant one was faced with all manner of life,

When faith runs its course and it has to deliver,

When hope has to hold its end of the bargain,

And both fail;

And one enters a gloomy epoch of faith’s despair,

A darkness of hope’s demise,

And both linger;

And faith disappears,

And hope is lost,

Worn away by the slow grind of an uncaring existence,

A new script,

A ‘mature’, ‘grown up’ and ‘responsible’ script,

A re-defined goal,

There is no faith at hope’s end,

A material end,

An existence bogged down by a burdened life,

No music,

No dancing,

No sunshine,

A naively wilful death,

A carefully scripted tragedy,

An end which, while seemingly decided,


With a renewed spirit and an enlightened awakening,

Is in a cocoon,

A beginning to a perpetuation,

That erstwhile acquaintance,  

A Season Of Faith’s Perfection.


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