The spirit of Makgapha :: Mmegi Online

There are those who say writing is an attempt to immortality. And many a poet or indeed any other artist have claimed such, offering, like some sacrificial lamb, the story, or the painting or the piece of music, as the irrefutable evidence to the gods of mortality, that indeed a hallowed place in the afterlife is deserved. And upon immortality’s throne sit the creator, the writer, the painter, the music composer. Because we artists, in this case, writers are an ambitious lot, we would like to see our story, our account, as an extension into eternal life, as the story outlives the writer.

As Sakarea Makgapha left this world for the hearafter sometime between end of Sunday and beginning of Monday, his stories became more alive on the pages The Sunday Standard. The Sunday publication, media exprts have said, is best placed to enter consciousness for it is eaten at a slow pace, accompanied by jazz and a glass of wine in an upscale joint, or on the dusty streets of a ghetto car wash where majita and mazoti park their cars for cleaning and debate the latest story in the paper.

Therefore it is irrelevant what Makgapha’s physiological exsietnce was up to, this past Sunday, for, in the coming Sundays until the end of this world the stories and what they inspire and animate within the consciousness of those blessed to encounter them, will live forever.

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