Thunder crashes in the distance, the sounds reaching me in the hot almost-still night, broken, also, by the constant chirping of the crickets. The storm is still far away. It may come this way. Or it may pass overhead, its bark worse than its bite. This is my favourite time of the year.
Mozambican-born Portuguese South African; reflecting on travel, writing, editing, life, family and change that has social impact; chief wide eyed in wanderer, wonderer and bottlewasher
