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ZAR 160-00
Excerpt 2: One Jesus Freak. Three Freaky Questions.

Pretoria always seems to be two degrees warmer than Johannesburg, so I'm travelling light. One small suitcase.
In it are a few articles of clothing, not that that is important. It is what is not in it, that is important.

There is no letter inside.

The crumpled, half-written golf balls are still in the wire bin. All of them.

I have come to spend the weekend with Corrie at her student commune, to do all the usual stuff. To walk hand in hand, to kiss until we're out of breath, to eat foot-long hotdogs, to share her study work and to lose ourselves in the embrace of night.
We stroll out onto the small square of lawn in front of her room, surrounded by a larger square of rooms. Each of which is home to a student. Collectively, they come in all shapes and sizes.

There is a tall, blonde, German cyclist-architect. A short, longhaired, narrow-faced girl who must be a descendant of Zorba the Greek. Next to her there lives a high-pitched, lanky girl-woman who suffers of verbal diarrhea and too much shimmery makeup. We always duck and dive her. There is an overweight, hope-to-be-a-vet-soon person. Opposite his room is a drama student who has a tendency to break forth into spontaneous-voice-warm-ups every afternoon.

And then there is Corrie's direct neighbour. Willem Postimus. We call him The Jesus Freak.

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Excerpt 1: Poetry and longstem roses.

Even though the notes of Prokofiev's musical score for Romeo and Juliet look so complicated, the orchestra makes them sound so easy.

Dressed in our Castle Guard costumes, Divan and I are about to make our grand debut in this PACT Ballet Company production.
The music swells, the chocolate-brown velvet curtain lifts, the audience applauds. I battle to swallow my smile. A Castle Guard is not supposed to smile.

I am standing here. Quite literally just standing here. On the very stage, in the very theatre where I enthusiastically turned to Mommy nine years ago, declaring that I want to be a dancer some day. My hard work has paid off. I've made it onto the stage of the Civic Theatre.

Sure, this is only a walk-on part, but I'm here. I've made it to the first step. I'm loving it. I'm looking forward to more of it.
Returning to the backstage dressing room, I'm surprised to find a sealed envelope with my name on it. By the way it's sitting on top of the box of chocolates, I can see that it wasn't dropped there casually. It looks displayed. Propped up. Each letter of my name carefully etched in perfect calligraphy.

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Excerpt 3: Knocking on doors. Knocking on hearts.

I put on my newly altered sandals and look at their reflection in the wardrobe mirror. I am able to read the words that I've just carved into the leather toecaps, backwards.

sevoL suseJ. The right way round, it reads as Jesus Loves.

These are the same sandals that are going to carry me to all the unknown inhabitants of the apartments in our block of flats.
Our pastor has inspired me to become a witness for Jesus, and what better place to start than right here, with my own neighbours.

I knock on number 47, it has an Egyptian eye painted around the brass numbers. A dark haired woman with a husky voice, cracks open the door. It appears as though she's got Vaseline rubbed onto her cheeks, just below her eyes, making them look wet and ethereal. I introduce myself and ask her if she would like to hear some Good News today.

She opens the crack of the door fully, revealing to me that she is dressed in a Kaftan, made of very sheer muslin cotton, underneath which, she is wearing absolutely nothing.

An alarm bell starts ringing in my head. I've heard about this famed kaftan wearer. She practices automatic handwriting for a living and apparently a neighbor has found her in bed with six men at the same time. My Jesus Loves sandals suddenly get cold feet and I tell her that I will return with the Good News, and my lovely wife, at a more convenient time in the future.

I rush down to the third floor and knock on number 39. A grey haired lady, wearing a purple apron over her house dress, answers the door, opening it only as far as the three safety chains will allow. She peers at me with little rat's eyes, markedly too close to each other.

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A Journey of Recovery from Sexual Brokeness