In which TV finds redemption

For purely aesthetics, I bought a TV. Well, at times it played a functional role in watching the old classics movies with Aubrey Hepburn and the like. Honestly though, I spent a considerable more on superior technology; that is, the sound system to accost my ears with innumerable pleasures of sound. Nonetheless,on those rare occasions the TV was a useful appendage in movie watching. Clearly, I can live without a TV, and its attended pollution.

But, this last week I have been enamoured with such fascinations as to please my person considerably. Cajoled to watch the TV series “The Tudors”, I was deeply appreciative of all. It is about King Henry VIII, the enigmatic fellow in England during the tail end of the Renaissance and the beginning of reformation. I am a student of history and a child of the Renaissance and thus on this count I did not need much persuasion. I was indeed persuaded most by the ability of the series to capture fully the time, trials and goings on of our favourite King. The producers have surely done a splendid and glorious job in bringing to TV the most troubling of times. The history content is apt and much has been done to preserve the historical account of things. Though I find the TV series to be extremely damning of the King. He was after all, a superior in intellect , widely read and a writer of note.

King Henry VIII, stands at the edifice of reformation, when the church of England broke away from the Papacy. This was fundamental, and it could only take a man of such fortitude and scholarship as Henry VIII. Of course there was the small matter of wanting to marry Anne Boleyn and subsequently find an heir to the throne. But, let us be honest, every man has his own trifles. And it is on these trifles of six marriages, the main focus of the series.

I have watched all four series and highly recommend this. I could not honestly claim to have a favourite character, but believe the Chancellors, Wolsey, More, and Cromwell did fabulous jobs as actors and brought to character the most formidable individuals during this period. Of all, though he played a minor role in the series, is the Earl of Surrey who brought to foe the tyranny of the king, and paid it all with his life. It didn’t matter his superiority in blood, those of low pedigree had gained favour.

Enjoy his poem, the happy life. A timeless piece with such eloquence and force in words it provokes at every stance:

MY friend, the things that do attain

The happy life be these, I find:

The riches left, not got with pain;

The fruitful ground; the quiet mind;

The equal friend; no grudge; no strife;

No charge of rule, nor governance;

Without disease, the healthy life;

The household of continuance;

The mean diet, no dainty fare;

Wisdom joined with simpleness;

The night discharged of all care,

Where wine the wit may not oppress:

The faithful wife, without debate;

Such sleeps as may beguile the night;

Content thyself with thine estate,

Neither wish death, nor fear his might.

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

When Kelz used to be Robert Kelly.

How times change. Do you remember the time when Robert Kelly was R Kelly? A music maestro with a voice so soothing it stopped a whirlwind in its tracks, so melodious the ocean tide waved to his notes, lyrics so powerful soldiers recited them before battle. The scintillating “heaven I need a hug” became the sound track of every criminal in jail. “I believe I can fly”, the song I played before my ‘A levels’ exam was not only inspirational but was my right of passage to life. I had gained my wings. I fell in love to “Forever, and ever” waltzing to the echo’s of “marry me, marry me”, with a young damsel I envisaged I would build the picket fence for.

Now R Kelly is Kelz. And there is something not right. Does success lead to fornication of one’s ideals? Is money, the cocktail of mental derangement? So many times I have heard the proverb, “with age comes wisdom” and each wrinkle a baptism of Aristotelian ethics. Kelz defies the time old proverbs. But, he is not alone. In today’s’ society many people are walking remnants of what was the “best of them “decades ago. So empty and vacuous are their ideals, the devil refuses even to curse a demon on them- it would be utter kindness.

Think, Vivica Fox, I remember a time standing in the queue at the local movie house for hours waiting for the movie, “set it off”. And there she was, towering splendour, an Aphrodite incarnate. That night I experienced my first wet dream, so wet I woke up panting, sweating and manly excretion dampening my sheets. Confused, I dried myself and slept. Vivica was not yet done, the next morning my body was slurped in dry white salt.

Today, to think this is the woman that made my testicles dance and vomit for the first time, is an embarrassing admission. What happened to the glory?

What happened to the most intelligent guy I grew up with? He committed suicide, I overheard the local barber lament,“he killed himself that is what happens when you are too intelligent”. I guess he just could not bear the life of ordinary. What of that pretty girl every guy had a crush on, “yes that one, many others and I bought a Mr bear ice cream for”. She died, Facebook advised, and left 3 kids.

In my library I picked up a GQ magazine, of yesteryear. GQ had Shaft on the cover page. A dapper man with brawn, brain and as the duke from a borough of bravery made life an adventure worth living as the “bad man”. When he told his woman, “my duty is to please that booty”, we all knew what he was talking about. All the ladies wished they had this ravenous savage for themselves or at least for one night. GQ has replaced Shaft with the clean shaven sweet faced Jude Law, and were it not the confessions of a nanny I would never have thought he had the courage to walk past a caged dog.

Marvin Gaye asks, “has anybody here, seen my old friend, john, can you tell me where his gone. He freed a lot of people but it seems the good die young, I just looked around and he was gone”. I remember my friend John- what happened dude? You introduced me to life and helped me buy my first shares. And then you just disappeared. I still needed hand holding dude. Where are you?

I remember R Kelly today, in the prime of his manliness- at his rhetorical best. “Reality” was on the album R and unable to afford a psychologist and with a father never at home, R Kelly was my counsellor. The photo of my generation was in the inlay, whereupon R Kelly looks out of the window reflecting. The image was beautiful, it told of a man looking beyond, beyond the trajectory of what eyes could see. The image, words and baseline still writ large in my brain; “any man can make a baby but it takes a real man to be a father, talking about a family, the kid, you and me, it’s not a fantasy but its reality.”

Remember the time when Erika Badu could captivate with her poetry, telling us to call Tyrone, to pick us up and as far away from her, sort our lives out. A decade later Ms Badu has fallen on hard times, she can’t even hire a video vixen for her music videos. To grab our attention she has to take off all her clothes and gyrate, her amble behind, for half the video. Years ago, she used to be covered head to toe. We were not even allowed to see a stray strain of hair; she had this huge hideous head gear on. We didn’t care; really we didn’t care, just how fashion was lost on her, because her poetry was just too powerful.

Writing this essay got me thinking, about that which is lost with time besides the slim waist and chiselled facial features as we become rotund and disgustingly lazy. Money becomes a substitute for courage, the more grey hairs we get the sillier we become (picture a 50 something year old with a grey haired jerry curl and fake Gunit chains). But not all is lost.

I have a good friend that stays in the outskirts of Pretoria in a country estate with his family. One unfortunate night his house was burgled by menacing, gun touting thieves. In the middle of the night they demanded all the jewellery in the house. My friend obliged and simply asked they do not touch his wife and kids. But, the thieves had other intentions. After taking the jewellery they started to man handle the wife despite the wife’s screams of protest. My friend, in a fit of rage, did what was instinctive to him. He ran straight to the offender and gave him a fierce jugular. The thief, half in awe and half dazed by the punch fell down. The other thieves then shot my friend three times before disappearing into the night. My friend was in hospital for a month. When I visited them at their home, there was a sparkle in the wife’s eye that I had never seen in her before. Her man, she said “was her hero”.

I also got to hear a heart wrenching story about another friend, a candidate PHD at an illustrious university and a bright future ahead of him. His parents come from Mt Darwin in the rural areas of Zimbabwe. One holiday he decided to visit, unfortunately this was during the election period in Zimbabwe. Bands of marauding apparatchik Zanu Pf youth and war vets had become the new war lords in this part of the country. No opposition party was allowed in this heartland of Zanu pf. unfortunately my friend’s family feuds spilled over into the politics of the day. Apparently his uncle (father’s brother) ratted on them, accusing their family of being sympathetic to the opposition.

The war vets would routinely round up everyone who was suspected to be sympathetic to the opposition and give them a night of orientation in Zanu pf politics. This basically involves a thorough beating until one can sing all the Zanu pf songs. My friend and his mother were rounded up with others and they were taken to the middle of the forest where a night vigil would occur. He says he was scared to death and could not reason with these pot infested, alcohol infected and angry as hell thugs.

Eventual they were told to lie face down, and the leader of the war vets, prepared a sjmbok from the trees around. He then started thrashing the captives, one by one. So thorough and determined was the hiding the screams could be heard miles away. My friend says when they got to his mother he just could not lie there, especially having seen how the other victims had suffered. Instinctively, without thinking he just sprung up and went straight for the war vet leader’s throat. If you know this chap, round about now is when you start laughing. I never imagined. He says, he does not know where the strength or courage came from but he just held on tightly to the throat. The war vet was now choking, with wide eyes and fell on the floor. The strangler did not let go. The other war vets having seen what was happening quickly came to the rescue of their leader. After breaking them up, they then tied my friend to a tree and beat him up until he passed out. The war vets did beat his mother up, but she tells the tale of her son-her hero. She says they beat her up but she could not feel a thing.

In these two stories, I have begun to understand manliness. The instinctive nature of man, beyond civilisation. It is this distinction that separates us from women that women fall in love with, that society find pride in. Alas, society will never hear these two stories, they are busy watching "Survivor" or dancing to Beyonce's "i'm a survivor". The hero, is the 1m winner of survivor. Decades later I wonder where they will be.

In building the next decades of our lives it is important we focus on what is important. On those virtues, which through practise make us real man. Because, if we are not careful, we too shall change our names from Robert Kelly to Kelz. If the name change does not help then maybe our naked posterior might. Desperate to just be in the limelight, when our shine was long gone.....

As for me, I am growing a beard....

Dear you

“Don’t ever give up on your dreams because when you do I give up too”.

I can never forget these words. At times when I feel like giving up, and this is most of the times, I remember first the look you gave me when you said these words and secondly I reflect on these words. No words have had greater impact on my life; no person has ever been more influential in my life.

When I met you, and the day is clear and dear to me, I never for once thought that would be the day that defines my life. One morning, in Morningside “Waldorf” it begun, so much has changed in Morningside, much more has changed between us. Before you I was fleeting, impetuous and vain and after you, solid, determined and resourceful.

With you I experienced the worst of life and the best of life, in both, never once did you abandon me.

I would wake up in fits in the middle of the night, from a nightmare that scared me whole. You would first calm me down and then pray for me, in an instant the ghosts went away. I thought of you dearly in Oyster Bay, when the ghosts returned and by myself I coiled. Safe is he with a woman that prays.

I remember our long walks along “Narrow” street-right through to St Kathine’s dock, as you patiently heard every thought in my head. I was broad and rabid in all my ideas and how I formulated everything. You would indulge me, chide me and hold my hand (even though I resisted this gesture) and urge me to go on.

I read Bill and you read Hillary, we had our political argument at 3am before switching books and by breakfast we both agreed it was Hillary with the plan. I wrote on numerous treatises, and you faithfully edited my work. My thoughts then, were rumblings of a scattered head, but iron sharpens iron. Dearly, my treatises are sharper now.

We became “major”, our lives’ sound track always on repeat. Kanye and Nas spitting about the move from local to major. Each verse we revisited as if to convince each other that one day we would build our very own MOtown. You were my hommie, my buddy!

Remember our studio apartment, the match box we shared, on one side were a monastery and the other side Le bon Marche. Celestial versus decadence, and we were in the middle of all this. We could hardly afford this part of 6th, but you insisted we had to experience all that is Rue Babylon.

And Parisian you were, the first thing you bought was a pair of Jimmy Choo 6 inches. With all I had I bought you a chemise/blouse from your favourite shop for your birthday. Really, it was all the money I had but I knew how important the day meant to you- and of course the blouse. That day you lit up like a shooting star, giggled like a child and your hug said it all. In your eyes I was a Superstar!

In the same eyes, you cried tears that never ended. I would pain you deeply and all you could do was cry. I never want to open flood gates like that, ever again. I hurt you badly, betrayed your trust but even when we were apart the way you saw me never changed. I was still a Superstar. That, and only that drove me. I wanted to make you proud; it meant the world to me to see you proud of me, even though time had come for us to take different paths.

Years later, I still want to make you proud. I know you are far away from me, the furthest any two worlds can possibly be. And I wish you every bit of happiness, happiness I know is the running stream in your life. I just want to say thank you, thank you, thank you for believing in me. Don’t ever stop believing in people. Only you, do it best. I really wish you were here to see what I have become. Will you be proud of me? I wonder........

You sowed the seed and watered the plant. Perhaps we met at such a season where only I was to gain and you were to pain. I wish now, I would pain and you to gain. But such is life, life I hold on to dearly now and hope I have the endowment to bring joy to another, to inspire and truly believe!

Thank you

Confessions of a thirty-something year old

Once, as a child I fell into a pit and for a long time could not get out. It was pitiful. All along basketball was the only thing I was good at, I dithered in education, my syllables lacked the personality that language should have and I had no social sensibilities. Only in shooting hoops was I best. Until one day, playing with a rival school I was fouled out in the first two minutes. An inventive ploy to upstage my team, of course without me the team lost. In disgust, disgust shared all round, I protested and got into a fierce back and forth with the teacher from the rival school. Here, a little boy of not more than 10 argued vehemently and unearthed the ploy the adult had invented. To my dismay, my own teacher and coach took me away and gave me a spanking, right there in front of everyone.

 My crime was simple, I had disrespected an Adult. I cried, and with every tear the passion for basketball went. Like that I faded into a nobody, became a recluse and hated every teacher I came across. Not until years later during the penultimate year of high school did I enjoy my first lesson. Perhaps I had gotten tired of the self pity or indeed I had found a teacher who understood my troubled mind. I learnt, in careful observation the ways of my favourite head teacher, his wisdom interred in the nature of his tools. A chalk and a rod he made his plea to the class. In the chalk we gained, in the rod we scarred. 

In my teenage years, I was the perfect icon in a perfect fantasy, I was Batman. That is how I saw myself, a hero with a costume out to save Gotham. Teenagers are prone to such multi-personalities dabbling between the real and the ephemeral. Like Batman, I too had a side kick, my Robin was my best friend and high school was the playground. I too had an unattainable Rachel. I remember well she was the best looking creature I had ever seen. She was prone to and glad in every contest that paraded beauty. I called her dimples, on obvious account. We actually never dated but were totally enamoured with each other. We did write to each other, letters I still have all signed Dimples forever. Forever, a little over a decade later is married with kids.

In my twenties, I prickled the bubble-Batman was too much of a cartoon character perhaps apt for a teenage hero but certainly not for a young adult. Batman represents the oscillation that young boys have between the real world and the world they aspire to be in, the plays of dreams and the mundane. Unable to confront bullies, rivals and adults in their real life they create mendacious caricatures like the “Joker” whom they cannot confront but find the courage under the guise of a super human being. Only in their fantasies can they confront their fears.

The manly hero for a guy in his twenties has to perform heroic and gallant acts, must be a cross between a man’s man and a ladies’ man and a lot sterner in his cockiness than a dry martini. He must be able to save the world-indeed that is his mission, he must have a code name (nothing cooler), be accosted in fancy sophisticated gadgetry, and with no sidekicks; the answer is James Bond. My twenties were spent as James Bond, I travelled the world on the benevolence of a Boss (with all the grumpiness of M). Like James, I was good at what I did, like James I was not ready for commitment. I played the field and had dalliances with the old and young, the beautiful and bold, Caucasian, Nubian and those in-between. On occasions when I settled, I settled for the wrong ones or was blithely betrayed- just like the 007.

It is from this vantage point I see my existential childhood and decades later I try to make sense of my current existence. What is obvious about a man who is thirty-something? I turn to literature for inspiration. The ladies would like to believe it is Mr Darcy, the charming fellow from Pride and Prejudice. I wish to dissuade such minds, Darcy was only eight and twenty courting a one and twenty lass. Thus all things Darcy are twenty something- albeit with a mature hand. Ms Austen perhaps considered this age to be the age of romance and marriage, 200 years later this is very much apparent and prevalent. It is Charles Dickens who persuades profoundly in the tale of two cities; it is there we find the time capsule of a thirty something;

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope it was the winter of despair.

My teacher’s chalk and rod, and Dickens best and worst reveal my life as a thirty something. I lived in both cities, in Paris I gained all fashion and cultural sensibilities and in London I became all Libertarian. How ironic, during Dickens tale, Paris was the source of Libertarian ideals and London the bustling cultural hub.  As a Parisian my chiffon scarf laden with charms from Hérmes became my Je ne se qui as I fostered and permeated an aesthetics culture. Yet Paris’s hedonism, socialism and its entire ism’s were the epoch of my disbelief. In London I straddled the incredulity in the frontiers of finance, I watched as stock prices soured and then tumble to thud. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.

The day one turns thirty is the day all randomness ends. Of course life was never random, but somehow one was easily swayed into such a belief. The clarion shouts of “whatever will be, will be” quietening to reflective slurs of “whatever shall become of me?”  

The evolution of man is such that with each decade the best is drawn out of him and at each stance in the music of life he faces his worst fears. As a teenager he is not confident enough to face his fears or strive for what is best, the mental and the will power lack, except in his dreams. A decade later perhaps through daring acts, or as a reward to schooling accomplishment he is recruited by the MAN. The Man makes him an agent, to what ends he does not question, he does another man’s bidding.

 A decade later he recognises that no matter what he does, the seasons of life are part of existence. He cannot run away from these, he must make the best of summer and prepare for the worst of winter. Therein, the difference between the magnificent from the insignificant!

But he is still a hero nonetheless, albeit with no super human powers. At least he has the potential. The difference is the realisation that to be a hero requires neither super natural abilities nor a licence to kill. Every man has in him the ability and wherewithal to cast wide his reach and achieve. One need not have a boss; a man is his own Boss.

I find Thomas crown, as played by Steve Macqueen (in the Thomas crown affair of 1968) as the quintessential gentleman of thirty something. Thomas crown is a multi-millionaire of a rip age of 36, divorced and lives in Boston, in a 3 storey, 150 year old house with an elevator and a man servant at his call.

Mr Crown is his own man in every sense, from his business, fashion sense, opinions and all manner of discretions. As a divorced thirty something, we reveal the scars of life but inert is still the thrill of life. He outwits his contemporaries and boredom ensnares him to plot a heist. Reminding us a man is not composed of sonnets and odes of the ecclesiastical goodness, he lives with an evil side as well.

I cannot but think about the head teacher with chalk and rod who impressed upon me Victorian treatise. That besides the brunt and pitfalls of a Victorian harsh hand, there was Victorian wisdom in Dickens, Hardy, Lawrence, Austen and Bronte. The chalk I have learnt, prolongs my summers and keeps me warm in winter, the rod I suppose reminds me when at times I forget to prepare for winter, innate are the years I experience the harshest and coldest winds. I have turned out to be a gentleman of sort, and if you do not like me, well that is just too sad.

Double espresso please

"How would you like that served sir, how many sugars"? The waiter asked and paused, waiting for a reply. I paused and looked at him and did not let my frustrations show; “ no sugar please” I answered and the waiter moved on. How should a double espresso be served I thought, is there any other way of serving a double espresso? At that moment I had a premonition which became true as the events unfolded, the waiter brought my espresso in a big coffee cup.

There is a tiny café in Marrakesh that serves the best espresso ever. It was in the early hours of the morning and keen to get some sun and wear my plaid Tommy Hilfiger shorts I had bought the day before I headed for the streets of Marrakesh. Before long I had found a perfect spot at the corner of the café with a wide view of the walking traffic outside. A peculiar hobby I picked up on sometime, I reckoned if bird watching can be a sport then people watching must have superior intended benefits. I opened my vanity fair and picked on a story I had slept on the night before.

The café had the attended displays and decorations of all Moroccan splendour with a heavy savory aroma of roasted coffee beans. I knew I was in the right place. Music was playing in the background, almost drowned in the hollowness of the wooden floors but enough to have a distinct rhythm and rhyme. Like wolves howling, tearing apart the stillness of the night, the sound system  clearly playing a record vinyl crackled and howled reggae dub beat. The slow rhythmic thud and echo of every sentence heard was enough to have my heart pounce in a tizzy and in absentia nod my head in unison to the hypnotic, slurred melody. I made note of the song it was Outkast classic SpottieOttieDopalicious and momentarily stopped reading as I became engulfed in the moment.

My double espresso came, in the right little espresso mug, the handle hole not even big enough to fit my index finger. With my espresso came a complementary dark chocolate tab. I put down my magazine, sipped the very hot liquid and made a bite of my chocolate. The sound knocking on my eardrums I remained engrossed in this meandering and teasing delirium.

It was not just me in selfish delight, fellow patrons in conversations or reading the daily newspaper  like regulars were and in adulation of the establishment. I noticed two rascals with their mother feverishly poking her and demanding something, like marijuana junkies impatient for a spiff. The mother seems to abide and offers the rascals their due and in turn the kids were smugly content.  I became curious and asked the waiter if I too could have my due. Soon enough I was chewing on these succulent caramel palm dates with my second espresso and soon enough was namby pamby.

After a while I paid my dues and thought of the day ahead. It was the best way to spend the morning and vitalise before a photo shoot in Marrakesh. 

But today, far from Marrakesh I got served an espresso only in name. What I expected came to naught and instead of vitality I got agitated, ruining the rest of my day. Oh well at least I had my ipod in hand. I drew a money note from my money clip and nicely placed it on the table. Picked up my novel, stood up gently placing my ear phones in the right ear and my finger tapped play. Outkast was my only redemption.

The delightful perfume

Little by way of small joy is enjoyed in this tumulus world than the whiff and engulfment of perfume. Of all the wars, warts and all, the only war I will fight for is for the girl that smells just right. You have met her before, she stood next to you and you turned. She walked past you and immediately followed her path. Infatuated with the odours, the nostrils gapping for more and the heart in dalliance purely because of scent.

I am hay feverish, so too much and too strong will make me sneeze in disgust. Too little and too generic will make me easily forget-or remind me of my grandmother’s soap. Just right and it will be recorded in my memoirs.

Is it not a funny state of encumbrance that of all disabilities, the sense of smell is the least suffered? Yet so true indeed that it’s the least put to use. How can this state of affairs be fair? God hath blessed to perfection this singular strength as the great source for mating decision. The nose is an instrument as powerful as a doctor’s stethoscope yet it’s sparingly used. 

Not mine, I relish in being mesmerised by fragrance on a woman. It sets me off in a reverie of memories of sunset’s cruises, beach strolls on white sandy plains or picking a basket of fruits from an orchard. It reminds me of my teenage flirtations with the giggly prettiest of pretty girls on a purple Jacaranda laden street at the tail end of Spring, when the heavens opened and the first drops of wetness drenched her white blouse.

The smell of the first rains, the sight of firm breasts still defiant of gravity pressing against the blouse- almost popping out. A painter could very well put on canvass this moment, capture the hues and make still the expressions of adulation. For me, all this can be captured in a scent.

Do not confuse my musings for a hearty romantic, which is not the case. Rather it’s remembering the vigour, vitality and eagerness of youth in play with nature and fondling the weather. To encapsulate this moment in a 100ml bottle is magical.

It is not my youth that is poignantly bottled as fragrance, it is also particular sceneries. I remember my first time being in the Serengeti. Dry Savannah prairie, that stretches forever. The air is still and dry and the heat scourging. The mirage makes one dizzy and the moment like no other.  No semblance of life around, until the evening and camping under the stars, the sounds of the darkness are heightened and trepidation fills the air. Perfume, in my opinion has the same effect on a woman, serene during the day before making her vibrant for the evening.

Sometimes, a perfume or a scent can capture a period in history well. At times I wonder what the 20’s were like, or what society was like during the Victorian era. Like music I believe scents do have their periods. This is what inspired perfumes like chanel’s No 5 to capture a period in history and all that was glorious at the time. I must hasten to add that the best scents are made more of natural ingredients and its best to avoid any scent named after a celebrity. Celebrities are fleeting and so are their associated fragrances. For more, a good read is Essence and Alchemy

It’s really fascinating that perfume and the use of fragrance became a routine chore before bathing was done regularly.  Back then perfume could cover the stench from not bathing, today perfume bares all in a woman. From her sense of erotica –is she playful, intense, sensual, easy to please, mundane, does not care to her sense of well being-personality, caring, aesthetics, branding  and desires.

Given the many prospects perfume has, why is little attention paid to citrus, musky, sandalwood, woody, honey, fruity   inspirations that a wearer immediately assumes. More attention is given to fake hair and extensions, make-up (that is to literally make up something were there is deficiency) and stiletto for posture. I have my qualms with the hair and make-up and in the least stilettos but I find it redundant when a woman pays little attention to her true box of charm-perfume.  Is it not true, that after a girl is gone the only thing a guy is left with is the girl’s fragrance still enamoured on his sheets.(of course the fake hair has its fair share of count-much to the disdain of every gentleman). Indeed the fragrance is the only unforgettable thing. Quite shameful then if it’s Elizabeth Aden that I get to content with.

Years ago when nobility was still in fashion, the Nobles would bath in scented waters with scented hand made soap, scented candles and burn incense acquired from faraway travels. This ritual made it easy to distinguish the nobles as they strolled in the market place. The three kings brought gifts of luxury to the new born son of man, myrrh-fine scent oils, Frankincense- incense and Gold. We are told these were wise men. I concur. Nothing distinguishes one as they stroll along in today’s’ society than wisdom and one’s scent.

What I remember most from the girl at the parking lot coin machine in Sandton, the girl buying a Baguette along St Germaine in Paris, the girl at the airport check-in at Heathrow, the lady I sat next to at the charity dinner in Harare, is unadulterated, unflinching doses of delightfully perfect fragrance. Subtle and kind to the noise, gentle capsules of an aesthete, vivid nuances of personalities of the wearer, vibrant aroma and alluring zest.  Enchanting notes of elegance, entreating charm and the staid countenance made me remember long after the encounters.

The encounter was brief but the whiff lingered longer and brought with it all sorts of permutations in my head. Primarily why this little joy can never be enjoyed longer and shared amongst all mortals. Alas, it’s enough to keep me happy for another day.