Donkeyshott & Xuitlacoche

Totally occupied for weeks with final illness and farewells for my wife Eve, ever an ANC loyalist, I have completely missed the wide coverage of Mark Gevisser’s book on Thabo Mbeki. Just until I have completed and sent off this article, I will stay outside the buzz of interest which the book – by a fine writer, after years of research – is stirring, for its full and sensitive treatment of the subject: I know that to understand can be to forgive – but it should not be to excuse, to validate, and to allow the subject to carry on messing up our national politics. Of course Thabo Mbeki should not be standing for a third term as ANC President – it simply muddies the fountains of choice as to who will lead the country into the next crucial phase of transition. But sadly, it is only the latest and greatest act of irresponsibility and manipulation in a catalogue of choices which I believe have characterised and shaped the course of the presidency, and of national policy. Like most long-standin

My mum was ill with cancer in South Africa and I posted a note on Cif in one of the discussion threads about her life and my father's. The next thing, Linda Grant - a regular Cif contributor - got in touch, inquiring about my mum and dad. I am not surprised that she knew them - their lives touched the lives of many. Mum was in the last stages of cancer. Linda's warmth surprised and pleased her. She even had the idea of writing her life story and Linda offered to help. This cheered her up immensely and she wrote a little beginning called La Petite Madeleine. But then we had to rush to my mother's side. Those last days as a carer were extremely hard for dad. We arrived at mum's bed less than an hour before she died. Hating her agony, I remember saying: "You can go now, mum." She died about a minute later. Then each of us acted in character. We all cried. Dad said how beautiful she was, Chris checked his watch in the middle of all his pain and said: "1.18&

I saw a copy of Che's African diaries about three years ago and was asked to translate them, but that offer soon faded away. At the time I said I would be honoured to translate the diaries. I am not so sure now. Che's language was dense and circular and confusing in its references, alluding to conversations and events that he didn't specify or detail. If Che was writing for posterity, there was absolutely no sign of it in the Spanish he used. Pure stodge. And he did go through a period of being quite obese. And then, a few days ago I was chatting to one of the former leaders of the African revolutionary and anti-colonial movements and he enlightened me somewhat. He said that he had respected Che's ideas to some extent, but didn't like Che as a person. According to him, Che had been a latecomer to the Cuban revolution, and without much of a background in Cuban politics. He just got onto the boat with Fidel in order to help swell the numbers. From then on Che was unde

So you have "lived deep" and extracted all the sweetness out of life, and you have had your last meal . But, what food and drink would you like people to remember you by? What wafting smell would have the power to conjure you up from the grave, to draw you back down through the portals of heaven, to tempt you back onto this lovely balls-up of a planet? Were you the Queen of buttered, slightly crisp and salty asparagus? Were you the King of French Cognac? Were you the Polish Prince of English wild forest mushrooms? Were you enslaved to Arabica? Were you an advocate for English cheese? Did you murder for a drink? Were you an innocent victim of chocolate? And, did you see the world in a grain of rice and eternity in a glowing coal of truffle? On All Hallows, on November 2, in an act meant to both evoke and invoke the dead, Mexicans put up altars and lay out the favourite food and drink of those that they loved, respected or just plain put up with. Traditionally, Mexicans are bot