La Rochelle Yearbook 2025

BUDDING AUTHORS

From the river to the Cape Town sea Where walls are painted in crimson prick and streets are buzzed with stricks of unity. The Bo-Kaap ignites the Mother City. A young boy walks the streets his father showed him, curving along houses and peeping through windows. His mother told him to go to Aunty Sarah’s, who does not live too far away. He takes the longer route, passing by a group of traders who offer him a mango. He smells the ripeness of their labour and feels almost guilty for taking a bite. Moments pass and he walks faster now, hoping to beat sunset. Aunty Sarah gives him rice, a bowl of and a lipstick-stained cheek. Running home, he hears the call to prayer and knows he should be rushing now. The paintings on the walls guide him home, where his mother greets him with a slap on the wrist. He goes to bed full and dreams of more adventures. The Redbus staggers up the Bo-Kaap slope and stops as kids run through the street. A man with a khaki hat and a foreign accent captures the colourful mural with his camera. He observes the red, black, and green flags that dance between houses and call to freedom. He knows not of their purpose or why they wave at him, but he hears the chants of ancient scribes, protecting this sacred dance. The pre-recorded audio describes the areas’ vibrant houses and businesses, but does not capture the freedom he sees. With his earphones out and camera discarded, he now sees what he should. He traces the buildings that are lined with Arabic scriptures and notices a boy who runs to his mother. He smells the aromatic spices and hears the people’s laughter echo the streets. He can see so much from up here and immerses himself in a culture that does not ask for his donations, but which feels of community. Higher up and even more piercing than a man’s eyes, glides a bird whose pupils dilate at the sight of scraps. It eats crumbs of home-cooked meals and wanders into places unseen. Its wings stretch across the sky and protect the people below. It nibbles at cold chips and bites at warm fruits. The bird stumbles into the shadows of forgotten places and flies among flags that wave and save the hearts of futile and desperate faces. Where pride is found in simple places and where unified voices fight for far away causes – the heart of the Bo-Kaap sings with defiance. A boy, too young to read, knows why he runs for and a man, alien to pride, unifies in curiosity, while a bird, small and timid, spreads its wings from the river to the Cape Town sea. Lamees Dulvie Gr 12. D

I wanted to run. I wanted to sprint until I was closer to home and far away from this emptiness. As I climbed the steps leading to the front door of my childhood home, this wildfire showed no signs of relinquishing its deadly embrace. With trembling fingers, I pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold. In an instant, nostalgia had an iron grip around my throat. Familiar. Every nook and cranny of this house was familiar to me. The air still smelled of fresh laundry and springtime blossoms. The sound of clinking wind chimes still filtered through open windows, and my feet knew which creaky stairs and floorboards to avoid. The familiarity always tried to lull me into a false sense of security, but I wouldn’t fall for it this time. I was here for a reason, one that had haunted me since the night the light in Levi’s eyes was snuffed out. Despite the familiarity, I couldn’t stop noticing unsettling changes hiding in neglected corners. Or maybe it just lingered in the deepest crevices of my own body. An eerie nothingness that echoed through the absence of laughter and music and messy bedrooms. Quiet. Wrong. The last traces of London’s restless energy still lingered in my blood, clawing through my veins into tight, electric tendrils. London had a heartbeat of its own. A pulse that usually jolted me back to life, but here, in this quiet house, I just felt hollow. Suddenly, darkness swallowed the house, wrapping around me like an unseen hand. No. Strained heartbeats. Shadows tinged with ice. Breathe. I stumbled forward, slowly tiptoeing through the hallway. I needed to remember what I was here for. I needed to find proof. I needed to protect them. My hand curled around the banister. Paper crinkled between my fingers. The lights flickered on, illuminating the words in an unforgiving flash. Welcome home, Raine. No. No. I knew he would be here. Three simple words. Pasted cutouts of printed letters, bleeding obsidian secrets of blood and gravel and silence. Silence, like the night the world shattered. I hated the silence. I needed bustling streets and a low, deep voice sharing stories with me until midnight. I needed music. To be loved by Levi was to be surrounded by music, his affection like the early morning trill of songbirds, the crashing melody of a string ensemble, the lonely cascade of a piano in the evening. It was all over. Everything we were. The electricity in my blood buzzed and sparked, igniting in a lethal cocktail of rage and rattling teeth. “You can’t fool me,” I murmured to myself. The lights flickered. “I know you’re there.” Behind me, there came a voice, a gruff echo caught between the edges of shadow and ruin. “I know you’re there.” Once again, the lights went out. Megan Jansen Gr 12.2

Love Poem – Anonymous I had never met a soul who could

until there was you. You’re fluent in me.

Hoër Meisieskool La Rochelle | Girls’ High School | 47