Winter in KwaNojoli 

“Close the gate so the cows don’t get in,” the granddaughter of Walter Battiss said. We laughed as we clambered up the stairs into the unknown, Franka, Nelandi, Mikyall and me. 

It was the third day – my second – at Paulet House and we were slowly getting acquainted with the history of KwaNojoli and the people who called it home. We would soon learn that the granddaughter – now a senior who has lived through several versions of South Africa – was serious about the cows that wandered around. It was an unknown fact to us, but the whole town knew. 

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The journey to KwaNojoli was a long one. It was seven hours of going in and out of sleep. Seven hours of stretching myself into the abyss of the midnight sky to chase letters. Seven hours of not knowing what tomorrow promised. 

When I arrived, Gilbert – the chef and caretaker at Paulet House – received me at Cookhouse, and in the car ride to the residence, I prodded him with questions about the town; about his life; and about the previous cohorts. 

The musings of each other’s lives were often spilled on the stoep over copious amounts of wine. The night would start with dinner, and everyone would retire one by one to the stoep, and we would find out that we all shared the same wounds – a similar heartbreak to a person who lived in a different city that we can’t name. The JBL speaker would bedevil our off-kilter conversations, and we would mull over the various meanings of genius song lyrics.  

Our gatherings became sporadic when the days fell into each other. The writing intensified under the crisp air that winter held in our isolated corners of the house. But this was remedied by dancing in Mnandi – a township a stone’s throw away from KwaNojoli; hiking to the waterfall; drinking room-temperature Black Label after running a 5 km studious trail. 

In the midst of ignoring the needs of my body – and the sustenance that is required for one to live – words from our mentor and story doula, Lee-Ann van Rooi (affectionately known to us as Mama Lee), would not fail to ring true: “Don’t bleed for the page.” Aunty Siena and Charmaine, the other caretakers, would never fail to compliment me, even in my bereft life form, and the notes of laughter always filled in the empty spaces. Paulet House was a safe space.  

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For me, the process of writing is usually prolonged by the uncertainty of discovering what is there meandering in between the blank pages. Mmaotonafinyela, the play I wrote at Paulet House, was my attempt at exploring the feminine rage in the spirit and physical realm. It was a text that kept taking from me without surcease, selfishly demanding to be regurgitated. Tantamount to the meaning of its name, once I was in it, there was no point of return. 

Plays are like messages one sends inside a bottle to their future self. They always find us. The second time they did was at Artscape’s New Voices in mid-October 2024. The staged play readings were an opportunity for us to unearth the methods to our madness – to see what worked and what didn’t work before the rewrite, until they find us again at Suidoosterfees in 2025.  

I would be remiss if I did not express my gratitude to the long list of people who carried this text and continue to carry it. From Lee-Ann van Rooi, Rafiek Mammon, Theo Kemp to Ntombi Makhutshi, Pearl Ntanyana and Olwethu Qavile. Gilbert, Aunty Siena and Charmaine. Jakes Gerwel Foundation, NATi and Suidoosterfees. The cohort, and you, reader, for welcoming me into your world.  

Thank you for reading. I hope you have a safe landing and survive the misery of your history.  

Yours,  

Neema  

Find me on Instagram: mosa_neema_rabannye