My grandfather loved horses. He loved them so deeply it drove him to create, though not in the way most might imagine. He never rode a horse; he wrote about them. The first Black journalist at the biggest racing course in the city. Imagine it: a Black man writing about horses in apartheid South Africa, a racist regime where such ambition was deemed absurd by many. Insane, even. But he did it. My grandfather was the kind of man who didn't believe in boundaries, only starting lines. I grew up around horses, not in stables or pastures, but on paper. Frozen mid-gallop, muscles taut, victory in their eyes. They were captured in the photographs that accompanied my grandfather's articles, framed and hung on the walls of his study. His byline glinted proudly beneath each one, a testament to his craft. These weren't just pictures or stories. They were bricks in the home he built from the ground up, one word at a time. Sunday afternoons were for stories, beginning after Sunday lunch. We'd gather around his armchair in the lounge, eager for the tales born from his imagination. Horses with names like Minor's Revenge, a sleek, gray thoroughbred with a white stripe down its back. In one tale, Minor's Revenge was a cautionary figure in a story about greed, teaching my brother and me lessons on gluttony and sharing. Or there was Greased Lightning, a horse that drank from a well during a thunderstorm and gained the power to run faster than the wind but only when it rained. These weren't just stories. They were folk tales, life lessons wrapped in humor and hooves. My grandfather had a gift for spinning tales that left us in stitches while planting seeds of wisdom we wouldn't fully appreciate until much later. He was a very funny man, my grandfather. He believed that a smile costs nothing but gives much. He had the warmest, most radiant smile, a smile I can see vividly in my mind whenever life gets me down and keep in my heart always. I miss his smile. He was witty and had jokes for days, capable of putting a grin on anyone's face. When I was sad, I never stayed sad for long. I've spent hours throughout my life on my granddad's lap, laughing and soaking in his hard-won wisdom. He had a way of making the extraordinary seem possible, of turning the ordinary into magic. With every story he wrote, he built his home. With every story he told, he built his family. Though he is gone, he will always be remembered for the man he was, the best man I've ever known. Today, I love horses. I ride them almost every day. When I'm in the saddle, I think of him and all his stories, his voice bringing horses to life in our imaginations. I'm the granddaughter of a man who loved horses, a man who wrote his way into history, who built a legacy one story at a time. And every time I ride, I carry his love with me, galloping into the horizon of dreams he made possible.

LION OF THE PEN When it rains, it pours!! These last few days epitomized this, with no less than four family members being rushed to hospital, two requiring urgent operations! The usually effervescent energy of the family chat group quickly shifted to a somberness that weighed heavily on the chest, often causing laboured breathing! The lighthearted posts were replaced with constant updates from the hospitals, messages of mutual support, and prayers ... lots of prayers... Then.. this afternoon, the dreaded news... I remembered that Saturday morning when he had called, requesting that I attend the Maritzburg unveiling of his book, "Mandela In Focus" at the Nizamia Hall. I remembered being in awe as he addressed the audience. I had attended primary school at Nizamia, as did my parents, uncles, aunts and many cousins. And so did he, as I surprisingly learnt from his speech! But never before had I encountered the history of the school as he told it! Even the school governing body later commented on the need to document it! After his speech, he made a bee line towards me, with the visible joy of one reconnecting with a long lost relative. He even stated that he now "recognized the family forehead"! He then quickly rearranged the row of chairs where we sat, into a circle and promptly summoned and introduced me to two other relatives, who had accompanied him to the unveiling. The last we had met was when I was a little girl, on holiday, at my uncle and aunt's home in Durban, where he was a frequent guest, up until my uncle's passing. Our paths never crossed again until January this year, when he had approached me with an invite, to be a guest on his talk show. It was only after providing a short bio for the show, did he make the connection and delightedly stated, "We're family!" Even after the unveiling event, the handful of us stood out on the school grounds as he continued exuberantly chatting, clearly explaining exactly how my grandfather was his uncle, and my mother his cousin. He pointed across the field to the house in which my grandfather once lived, next to the mosque. He said he had spent a lot of time there and could still clearly remember every detail of that house... every fruit tree in the garden... everyone who lived there... and everyone who visited... He spoke of how my grandfather "presided over the community" and how we needed to co-author a book about his life. His love for my late grandfather was visibly evident. By this time, Kevin Joseph, the photographer of "Mandela in Focus", and the school principal had joined in the conversation. He introduced me as his niece, to which Kevin quickly inquired: "Another one?" "No! This one REALLY IS my niece!" he emphatically proclaimed. I later discovered that he habitually adopted people as family. All the cars in the parking lot had by now long dispersed, except for ours... Over the coming months, I received regular phone calls... a caring uncle watching over me... a seasoned mentor... I thoroughly enjoyed listening to tales about his friendship with Muhammad Ali and Barbra Streisand, the lavish dinners, the times when her home was filled with people, at the height of fame... and other things... He always ended his calls with a bit of parting wisdom... He also spoke about the book he was writing, documenting his experiences as a journalist and activist. He mentioned the title he was considering ... "The Man They Couldn't Gag" ... and asked me to write a short poem for the foreward. I obliged with "Lion of the Pen" Lion of the Pen He feared not the hunter's bullets in his quest to be heard And a deafening ROAR it was From his written word AdielaAkoo At the time of writing this poem, I never once thought that barely six months later, I would be writing this piece! It's only been a few hours since that dreaded news, and it still feels so surreal. The reality of lifelessness in one normally so full of life, is quite jarring! From the influx of messages being posted on social media, the positive impact that uncle Farook had on the lives of so many people, is clearly apparent. Combined with this, was his wonderful talent of making each person feel uniquely special! He will, undoubtedly, be sorely missed... Part of my own treasure trove of memories is this autographed copy of his book, "The Goodwill Lounge", in which he wrote this message in bold letters: "TO ADIELA, WHO OWNS THE SKY" And that is exactly how he made you feel! Like nothing was impossible! You could take on the world, like he did! They say that when an elder dies, a library burns down. These words have never rang truer than in the case of my uncle, Farook Khan. May you rest in peace, Lion of the Pen! (10 September 1944 – 3 October 2019) by Adiela Akoo

I am writing my story. Not just here -- in this place and this space, but my life story. Every day when I awaken, the page is blank for me to fill. How will I fill it? The pen is mine to wield. The choice is mine: Will it be a page of adventure or service or quiet reflection? Like the best books, the best lives contain a variety of moments: those moments of quiet reflection give us time to breathe. As readers, we need those moments after pages of intense action. The same is true in life. After busy days or weeks or seasons, we desperately need moments of quiet reflection to rest and process. We love adventure and it is necessary, too, for an excellent book or a life well-lived. We need our heart pumping, moments of excitement interspersed with trepidation. While I am not the most ADVENTUROUS person, I love traveling and trying new foods. I enjoy the outdoors and music. All of those provide moments of adventure to enhance the story of my life -- new places visited, new foods tried, new paths walked, new goals met, concerts attended and performed, and so much more. The pages of adventure are some of the highlights in our books -- and in our lives. I can choose to fill the page of today with pride and selfishness or I can choose humility and service. I've chosen each, at different times, and that's part of life, too. Even now, at my age, there are still days I struggle with pride and selfishness. Usually now, though, my days and my pages are characterized by service -- kindness and helping. Sometimes I act first and my heart follows a bit behind my hands and feet. I know if I do the right thing for the right reason, my heart will catch up -- even on the days when it would rather wallow in selfishness, bitterness, resentment or pride. I try not to fill my pages with those moments, but I would be lying and hypocritical if I said they don't exist! Those pages teach us to live better -- and remind us that we are all human -- struggling with human weaknesses. They remind us to be kind because we all have those struggles! There are some pages I don't choose, but I have to write them anyway -- these are the mandatory writing assignments -- the moments that choose us. Tragedy, grief, unfairness, persecution, heartbreak. They are the pages we want to skip, but we can't because they help shape the character. We know if we skip these parts, we wont understand the character as well. So we soldier on in our book, as we do in our lives -- with the tears rolling freely and the heart jostling around in pieces. Yes, those moments shape us, strengthen us, and challenge us. We would not be the same without them. Little by little, the tears dry and the heart mends. The scars remain and the memories still sometimes are hard to revisit, but we appreciate those pages and their value in the overall story that is being told. Sometimes it would be nice to be able to leave a page blank and come back to it. When we are waiting, seeking, plagued with indecision. A writer of a novel may have that luxury, but as I'm writing my life story, I don't have that as an option. I woke up this morning and I must live today. 86,400 seconds each day in the story of my life to be used, wielded, and lived. 86,400 seconds to write something of importance. It cannot be rolled back or rolled forward. It is to be lived in the here and now and reflected upon later to help shape and create the next 86,400 seconds. That's how we grow. It is one of the hallmarks of good characters -- they grow! I want to be a character that grows! So I reflect on how I spent this 86,400 seconds and it helps me choose how I spend the next 86,400 . . . little by little and bit by bit I make better choices; I grow. As I do, I impact and influence other characters in the story of my life -- and the story of theirs. They also influence and impact me. Books and lives are meant to be shared. I must admit there are days when I am just going through the motions, keeping time. There are days and pages where my 86,400 seconds were not very memorable or full of significance, but It's not how I want to write my story. I want to end up on the last page -- the last breath -- used up and tired and full of great memories and great lessons. I want to leave behind a shared legacy of a live well-lived and a life book well-written. That's where my faith comes in. It helps me to live well and push forward and persevere. It gives me a higher calling and a reminder that my life book is NOT just for me -- but for all who are watching and all who will come after me. It's a reminder that I'm writing this story to be shared and I want it to be worthy of sharing.