Monthly Archives: February 2014



RABSON Dube worked at the wildlife orphanage. He fed the animals, cleaned the cages and helped out around the place. A simple soul, he liked his job. He drank too much, but he swore this helped with his migraines.

Tall, with rounded, barrel chest and powerful arms, the task of carrying meat to the lions and bags of food to the elephant were easy for him. The smell of rotting meat and dung from the animal cages permeated his being, but Rabson didn’t appear to notice.

At night, in a dark alley, this spectre would be scary. His appearance was alarming, mostly on account of his bright red eyes. Inside, Rabson was a gentle soul with cataracts. Son of a scout and brought up on a private game ranch, he was good with animals, understood them, liked to talk to them. In his workman clothes, old overalls, usually open to the waist at the front, and a cheap pair of plastic gumboots he blended into the background, invisible to most visitors to the orphanage. Read the rest of this entry


Tit for Tat…


Tit for tat…seems to be intrinsic to society. It appears to have been with us for eternity. For an Aspie, tit for tat is a mystery. An Aspie wants you to say, “now you do this for me, and I’ll do that in return…” They want to know clearly what you are talking about. No innuendo’s or double guessing for them. They feel no need to disguise what they are doing. Ever wonder why an Aspie appears rude and abrupt? Read the rest of this entry

Hey, I wrote a novel…


I have a very supportive husband. When I told him I’d written a novel he said, “Oh. That’s nice.”

When I asked him if he would read it, he said “OK, sure.”

Now, I should probably say here, that he doesn’t read many novels. He is more into philosophy, articles about the universe and such. He belongs to physics forums. Does mathematics problems for fun.

Hey… I also read some serious stuff: obviously the latest psychology developments, new research in maths teaching… and I don’t read romance.

He didn’t know I’d been writing at all. He’d been involved in an electronics project with Ant, and like many Aspies, he has phenomenal concentration. We stayed with our kids in Randburg, and that’s possibly how I found the time to write two hundred thousand words!

It was Frankie Kay who wrote Silk Threads, not the boring me. Not the me who is a wife with two kids, sews, does the washing…no, this other persona came along and wrote the book. Each morning, after I’d had coffee, I sat, propped up in the bed writing furiously. Then, I’d get up and make a brunch for everyone. I’d scold the kids, do the shopping, visit brother in law and, if I was lucky, sometime in the afternoon, Frankie would get another chance to write. Also, like most of my projects, I wasn’t organised, didn’t write it chronologically, nor did I know the ending. It all developed from the characters. Once I had them firmly in my head, they decided upon what happened…all of this, going on in the background of me…while I outwardly got on with what it is women of my age and designation do.

Back home in Zim, my husband settled back to read this novel of mine…and I, now with nothing to do, sat watching him with trepidation.

It’s a long book though, and he didn’t finish it in one sitting. He refused to talk about it and I didn’t know what he thought. And yes, it mattered to me what he thought.

One evening, lying on my side of the bed, reading my kindle, I heard him make a disgusted sounding noise. Sort of a snort and an “Eeuw” all mixed up. He shifted slightly in the bed, pulling himself higher up on his pillows, his face screwed up in disgust.

“No,” he said with undisguised revulsion. “No, this is too much.”

I wondered what offended him, and looking over his shoulder saw he was not complaining about the ‘pony’ scene or the Mac Club one. He was at a ‘romantic’ description. A scene I thought I had done a particularly good job of. I thought it was nice and soppy and would appeal to female readers.

“No. I’m sorry,” he said. “This has got to go. This is awful. I will not be a party to this drivel. Take it out for goodness sake and put in a…I don’t know, put in a BJ or something!”

This was the first comment he had made about the book…he found nothing strange in the idea that his wife had written a story about a girl who allowed herself to be totally dominated by a coloured man, or that I had written graphic descriptions of this girl in various compromising positions. About whips and ropes. No, he minded my romantic scene, the one I had slaved over, so very hard.

Anyway…, I took his advice – didn’t inflict my idea of a romantic scene on my readers!

He read the book through twice; edited parts for me, encouraged me when I gave up on it. He says what he thinks, thank goodness. If he doesn’t like something, he says so. He insisted it was totally unbelievable that Eugene, a street kid, could have played the type of music he did, as proficiently as he did. That comment was the inspiration for my second book, (which, incidentally, is nothing like this one!)

I’ve been very lucky with the people who helped me edit my book. My sister, with her excellent English, my friend Allan (who still hasn’t read it) who told me he couldn’t get past the girlish goo in the diary entries! My brother in law, Mr. Perfect, who said only that he was “impressed.” Wow, that accolade from him was like most people hopping about naked on the top of a building, yelling!

As a critic, my mum was a disaster – she just thought it was brilliant – but I suppose that’s what mums are for?

A Silken Thread on Amazon is a different book from Silk Threads on Smashwords.

What began as a few changes I made as a result of email discussions with people I insist on calling “fans,” evolved into a totally different view. That’s the glory of e-books. It costs nothing to republish or make small changes and I’ve taken advantage several times.

Please have a look at my books. Unfortunately, Amazon doesn’t allow free books, so you have to pay for A Silken Thread.

Click here, to download A Silken Thread

A Silken Thread

Click here to download A Pale

A Pale

Please post comments on the books here on my blog, or at Amazon.

You can email me at:

I love fan mail and discussing my books via email, so please don’t hesitate to contact me.

Silk Threads is available on Smashwords…if you are into BDSM and more explicit scenes, please download a copy of Silk Threads  here:

Silk Threads

And a copy of Jack and Jill here

Jack and Jill a short story

Please leave a comment on Smashwords

Best keep it short…


Chipangali, founded by Viv Wilson is a wildlife orphanage, just outside Bulawayo. I first saw Mr Wilson on TV when I was about seven or eight. I can remember sitting, open-mouthed watching him picking up snakes, explaining all about them in his squeaky voice.

“Well, Ken,” he would say while holding the slithering serpent in his bare hands, showing its amazing fangs.  “A bite from the Gaboon Viper…”

Until then, what I knew about snakes, was that they bite. All of them. All of them were poisonous and all should die. Immediately. Accompanied by a lot of yelling and screaming “Tshiya! Tshiya!” The lifeless body and squashed head should not be touched. It should be held with a foshola or stick on its way to the fire, cos it could still poison you. Read the rest of this entry

The human element…


Recently, a photographer told me my photo graphs  were empty, lifeless. He said they lacked “the human element,” the little something that takes a good view and makes it great…He sent me some pics as examples…the one I especially liked was a park…the human interest: a piece of litter!

I’ve taken this piece of (constructive) criticism to heart…and I’m trying to visulise a new perspective into my photos (a difficult thing for me, because I find the human element uncomfortable against the backdrop of the rural landscape…)

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These photos were taken in Zaka, where it is difficult (but not impossible) to take photos and NOT include the effects of humans. I’d love to know which ones you prefer? Did the human element make a better pic?

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This sequence is of the same view! I just zoomed in on different features…

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Same view again, different orientation.


Does this photo need someone walking on that path, or is it enough human element?

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Ant, taken in Matusadona National Park



I’m unashamed to say I stole this story. Why? Because the guy who told it to me doesn’t blog and is unlikely to publicise it, and it’s a story begging to be told.

So to make me feel better here, howz about we say it’s a guest blog and in the same spirit, I’ll write it from his point of view. So here goes…

Late one afternoon I get a phone call from Siakobvu hospital to say one of my guys is in there with malaria and they need money. Since the US dollar was in use already albeit illegally, I knew he meant they wouldn’t accept Zim dollars for treatment…
I got up there a day or so later, sorted out with the money story and went through to see my rigger foreman. He’d been treated fine, was recovering, but extremely weak. He lay in a bed next to a man almost entirely covered in bandages.
“What happened to you?” I ask
“I was attacked by an elephant,” he replies.
“And you survived?”
He nods and says:
“You see boss. I have to go through Chizarira National Park to my home in Zhamba. It’s to make money.”
I nod to encourage him, after all, my rigger is barely lucid and I’ve got nothing else to do.
“I have two children and God has blessed us with a third.”
His face spits in a wide happy smile.
“You know times are tough,” he adds and again I nod my head, “So I buy fish at Kariba and take it home to sell.”
My eyes widen. Kariba to Zhamba via Chizarira is VERY far. Even in a car. On a bicycle it must take days. No, he tells me. He takes one day to get from Kariba to the top of the escarpment and once there, its mostly downhill…A day through the national park, if he times it right and only a few hours home on the other side. At least, he adds, he can stay with someone he knows immediately outside the park.


“So, now it is late afternoon, I am racing along on my bicycle, I come around a sandy corner and whah. Three male elephants, all over the road. I swerve, Boss. I go into the bushes on the side trying to avoid them. But one of them reaches out with his trunk and knocks me off my bike. I roll and I run. I run for dear life. But even if an elephant doesn’t look like he is running, he is very fast. The smallest guy chases me, maybe thirty metres. He finds it much easier to run through the long grass than I do. He hits me to the ground with his trunk. The elephant takes his tusk and spears me here,”
The man taps his hugely padded, blood stained thigh.
“Then he pulls out, and prepares to stab me again. I roll over and he misses with the tusk but crushes me with his head. I hear my ribs popping and breaking. I can’t breathe and the vision of my two children passes my eyes.
“The elephant stands, to finish me off. I look up at him towering above me and I try to wriggle away, but I cannot. He moves his leg.  I think he is about to kick me, but he takes a step back and then makes a noise while he flaps his ears, in answer to one of the elephants.
“I hear them busy with my bicycle. They are destroying it. It crashes and buckles as they hit it down on the ground, against the rocks.
“The elephant moves over to its friends. I hope it has forgotten me, will leave me alone. But I know, even as I pull my arms over my head curl into a ball, I know it won’t help me. This is the bush and it will soon be nightfall and the smell of blood will call hyena and jackals. My unborn child will never know his father, may even never know what happened to him. Someone may find my bicycle, maybe not even this year. Who ever comes along this road? Let alone twenty, thirty metres in?
“I lie there, I do not know for how long, when I hear the elephants back. I am crying from the pain, and expect that having destroyed my bicycle, they will finish me off. I feel a shadow over me and try to curl tighter. Over my arm, a trunk, bristly, moves gently. It drops down my face and I can smell my fish. I feel the wind as he sucks up my smell. The trunk taps me gently, strokes me down my arm, all the way along my body to my bleeding thigh.

“You know you can’t hear an elephant move, they walk so silently. The next thing I hear is a breaking branch. I guess they are eating nearby. I am wrong. A branch is thrown on top of me, then another and another. They are holding my funeral. I have heard of this about elephants and I begin to cry.

“It became dark slowly although in my pain I was not always awake. The wound in my thigh was not bleeding as badly as it had earlier on, but I still could hardly breathe. I had to take very shallow breaths and I could taste blood in my mouth. I wanted to cough… I tried it only once!
“The elephants remained with me through the night. A few times I felt that trunk gently brushing along my arm, my face. Down my body.

“You may think I’m dreaming boss, and maybe I was. But I heard the jackals first. Later I heard the hyena. I heard his insane giggle and I feared. Once, during the night I swear I heard one of the elephants hit one. I knew how powerful a blow from that trunk is. The hyena made a silly screaming laugh, but didn’t wrap those powerful, bone cracking jaws around me. I have heard of people asleep in the bush have parts taken off their bodies from one bite by a hyena.
“I awoke in the early morning to the sound of the blue flies. They were sitting all over the branches around me. Blue flies are the death signal. Not one can be seen until the end is near.

“The elephants were still there. They took it in turns to eat, never roaming very far.
“Lying there, waiting for death, in the cool, very early morning, boss, I heard the unmistakable sound of an idling diesel engine. I thought I was dreaming. Hoping. My blood beat loudly in my crushed heart. I wanted to struggle up, wave my arms to the car, call out. I could not move. I could hardly croak. The vehicle slowed, but the safari hunter did not turn off his engine. If he had, he may have heard me.”
Smiling proudly at me, the man said, “It was the big elephant again that saved me, boss. He made a dance to make the tourists watch. He held their attention and then when he realised they could not see me in the tall grass, he held up one of the bundles of branches they had placed over me. The tourists still didn’t understand so he walked over to my bicycle and held it up.”
I think my face must have been a picture of disbelief because the patient levered himself up on one elbow, painfully.

“Boss. You can refuse to believe what I have told you up until this point. But this part I was told by the people on the game viewing vehicle. You can ask them if you don’t believe me. That elephant, the one with the large tusks called them to me. They picked me up off the ground, put some bandages and drove me all the way here.

“And my unborn child will live to see his father…”

Apparently the guy decided it was too dangerous to ride a bicycle through the National Park any more. It was obvious to him that the elephants knew he was not supposed to be doing that. The fish on the carrier had likely offended their sense of smell as had the speed with which he was traveling!

He professed himself lucky that the older elephant had a sense of humanity and stopped the younger ones killing him. He said perhaps another elephant who had been hurt by humans may not be so compassionate. He said he was lucky the older elephant was embarrassed enough to chase away the hyena, look after him through the long night.

He would stick to farming cotton from now on, he said. Hard work, it didn’t include riding through a National Park.

Kariba is the distance

Kariba is there…in the distance

Now… this, Ladies and Gentlemen is a true story. Why would I lie to you?

Please have a look at my books:

You can find Silk Threads on Amazon here

A Pale here:

I still have Silk Threads free on Smashwords here:

Silk Threads
Jack and Jill here:Jack and Jill a short story
They are also available on Sony, Apple, Barnes and Noble, Diesel etc etc