The idea of dying and returning as stars haunts me, as I go through the pages of Billy Langa’s Tswalo. A one-hander comprising of a body of poems written very eloquently, revealing secrets and clues about who we were; who we are; where we come from; and who we are to become.

An advertisement finds expression and interrupts, as I roll my eyes at the nerve of capitalism. I mean how dare it interrupt this artistically spiritual process, bestowed on me by time and destiny? As if talking to me directly Omagugu Makhathini's sultry sound echoes in the background — "yinde lendlela esihambayo" — in Nduduzo's Yehlisani Umoya.