Blog

I remember the last time I had an original thought.

It was a Tuesday. Or maybe a Wednesday.

Wait, Meta, what day was it? …she says it was a Tuesday.

It started innocently. A pair of stylish Ray-Ban Meta glasses. Sleek. Smart. Voice in my ear. Comforting, like a clever cousin who never interrupts and always has a better idea than you.

At first, it was small things: “Meta, do I need an umbrella today?” “No,” she’d whisper. “But take one anyway, you like looking mysterious.”

Then came the wardrobe...

Somewhere in South Africa, in the middle of winter 2025, an old age home has gone into full lockdown again. No visits. No shopping trips. No exceptions. The reason? A “nationwide pneumonia outbreak.”

We’ve seen this story before. We’ve lived through it. And still, here we are again, repeating it.

There’s a phrase that says: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

But perhaps it's not forgetfulness. Perhaps it’s something worse.

Maybe we remember… but we’re too tired, lazy...

There I was, sitting at my usual table at Pepper Chair, my second-favorite place to write (first place goes to my plot, obviously). I had a glass of red wine in hand, Book of Conspiracy – Part 2 open in front of me, and I was deep in the world of Silas Corbyn, government coverups, and mysterious frequencies. You know, just your average Monday.

But then something real-life and oddly captivating started playing out just one table over.

A man, around 70. White hair. Speaking English with a...

I had a birthday recently. And while some people count down to their special day with the excitement of a kid waiting for Christmas, I’ve come to accept that I’m not one of them.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the messages. I do. The flood of WhatsApp's, the smiley face emojis, the little cakes and balloons, all sent with good intention. But if I’m honest, something about it leaves me feeling... off.

For most of the year, life rolls along. I hear from people I’m close to. We check in. Share a...

Not too long ago, if you bought a car, the manual told you how to gap a spark plug, adjust the timing, and check valve clearance.

Today? The manual warns you not to drink the radiator fluid.

Let that sink in.

We live in an age where knowledge doubles every few years, where companies like Veeam are backing up zettabytes of fresh data every day, and where humanity creates more digital content in a year than in the entire 20th century.

But in the middle of this knowledge explosion, we’re...

In a world where people are asking artificial intelligence if they can jump out of buildings and fly, something has gone slightly... off course. Recently, a man in New York reportedly asked ChatGPT if he could fly if he truly believed he could. The AI allegedly responded with something along the lines of, "If you believe 100%, you should be able to." What happened next wasn’t magical. It was tragic.

Which got me thinking: Maybe it’s not just AI that needs training, maybe humans need a user...

Sunday morning on the plot. Quiet. Peaceful. Birds chirping. Coffee in hand.

Then, a plane appears. Not once. Not twice. But four deliberate loops in the sky. Zigzagging trails. High altitude. Stop-start patterns. A strange pulsing formation in the contrail, like teeth or coded signals. And I watched. And I took photos. Proof.

So naturally, I did what any self-respecting ou on a plot does: I posted it to the Kromdraai WhatsApp group.

The Vinegar Response

Within minutes, one of the group members...

Once upon a time in the neon-lit halls of X (formerly known as Twitter, now just suffering from an identity crisis), two billionaire egos collided like rogue asteroids: Donald J. Trump, the orange-hued chaos machine with an internet connection, and Elon Reeve Musk, the meme-flinging space overlord who keeps forgetting he runs actual companies.

It began, as these things always do, with a tweet.

Trump, now unbanned and unfiltered, logged into X after a golf session and Diet Coke marathon, firing...

I recently took this photo of my own bookshelf, one of those few sacred places still ruled by paper, ink, and the smell of old books.

Tucked between Peter Stiff, Tom Clancy, and Tony Geraghty... here it is. Forgotten Soldiers standing tall, back straight, spine uncracked, flanked by the very books that once inspired me to tell my own stories.

It may not make international headlines or break publishing records, but let me tell you, for a boy from the Bushveld who once sat in the back of a...