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Supernatural Paranormals Week


It’s week 2 of Spring Death on the blog and it’s all about the supernatural and the paranormal. As a transitional short from last week’s Serial Killer week, here’s an excerpt on a supernatural serial killers:

Weh ma! Baba!” he exclaimed as the aged bodies of his reanimated parents stared blankly at nothing before them. He hadn’t noticed how cold the room had become until his breath escaped in an ephemeral plume. But it was a passing notion. His heart seemed to be beating in his ears, a light elation filling his lungs, crawling across his face into a grin that spread to his eyes. The two bodies on the bed turned sagging pale faces towards him, milky eyes unseeing, mouths drooped to reveal toothless gums and dry grey tongues.

“Ma?” he said to the closest body. The woman on the bed seemed to be more skin than anything else hanging down her skeletal frame. She raised stick-thin arms out towards him,

“My child.” A feathery murmur escaped from chapped lips, “Come.”

Excited, Siyabonga rushed to the woman and wrapped his arms around the cold, bare body.
“Oh ma! Ma!” he cried into the icy flabs. An earthy aroma rose from the body. He was barely aware of the strength in the arms as they clutched him tighter and tighter and tighter. The spell had worked. Traditional medicine had done what modern science never could – it brought his parents back from the dead. The sangoma was the real doctor not him. His thoughts were broken by a sharp pain in his side. He gasped for breath,

“Ma!” he choked as his arms pressed against his sides, his back folding in on itself as ribs crackled under the grip. He tried to scream but only a gurgled whisper escaped. He hadn’t even heard or noticed his father until a second embrace wrapped around them and clutched harder. The crackling bones sounded like splintering wood, the unyielding pain perforating his arms, twisting along his back, grinding into his chest. A guttural groan clawed out of his throat.

“My child. Thank you.” The voiced snaked into his mind. It was not his mother’s voice. It wasn’t even female. He tried to speak but the pain was too intense, black spots peppered his vision as his breath shortened into painful hics.

What happens next? Are they really his parents? Who has he brought back from the dead and what will they do next? *Cue music and final credits*


To read the behind-the-scenes draft of my stories, you can become a Patreon from $1. As a Patreon, you are also able to send suggestions and ideas for your own personal creation; it doesn’t have to be related to my Spring Death theme.


Friday Fiction: War


Nandipa stepped out of the MTN Taxi rank in Noord and immediately slung her school bag through her arms on to her chest like a baby. The gloomy space was rife with activity as people from all ages and walks of life ambled out of taxis or hurried up to them. A man selling boiled eggs kept rattling the Aromat shaker at the passing pedestrians, while another held a box packed with potato chips and cold drinks dripping water down the glistening cans. Nandipa barely gave these and the other hawkers a second glance, already marching through the hustle and bustle and into the warm afternoon sunlight among the rest of Johannesburg’s jaywalkers. She hated Joburg CBD with a passion. Hated the fear coursing through her whenever someone approached from the opposite direction. The unease when she heard footsteps approach from behind. Ignoring any form of whistle, hey, or anything trying to draw her attention because that was all they needed wasn’t it? Just a simple acknowledgement and it was over. And Ghandi Square was still so far.


Petros weaved his way to the far left of the M31 heading to Joburg from Alberton. His passengers murmured below his mbaqanga music, yet he barely heard them when his own thoughts seemed far away. He gave a single glance out towards the empty yellow lane and was about to swerve into it when an image, clear as day, appeared before his eyes. Further ahead closer to City Deep, on one of the roads leading left into Marco Fresh Produce, the JMPD sat in their car watching through the rearview mirror. And just as suddenly it was gone and he was speeding towards the back of a Toyota Tazz. He released his foot from the gas pedal, swerved into the lane anyway and pumped his brakes slowly to bring his taxi to a slower speed.

“Driver you’re going to kill us.” a woman said further behind him. He swept his eyes over the mirror and caught sight of her slack jowls, and dark beady eyes glaring at him.

“I’m sorry.” he said,

“Hey wena we almost died and all we get is a sorry? Heh!?”

“I said I’m sorry what do you want? A cake?”

“It’s that disgusting attitude that makes people hate all you mageza. You have no respect for your passengers.” Petros stomped on the brakes and lurched every one forward. He half turned in his seat, removed his leather cap and stared straight into her eyes. She buckled under the red-rimmed stare, her body slacking though her eyes remained alert as Petros dived into her mind.

She was a hard working woman. Stressed from the job she hated yet couldn’t leave. Stressed by the lack of funds for her child’s school fees. Stress from the father of her children who did little to support them let alone support himself. He saw the fear radiating through every aspect of her life – the fear of helplessness through poverty.

“Hey driver, don’t get upset.” the young man on the passenger side said, breaking Petros’ concentration and vision of the woman’s existence. He shook his head clear, adjusted the cap back on his head and resumed his drive towards Ghandi Square.


The buses were late as usual, and as thankful as she was for making it to Ghandi Square without getting mugged or hit on, Nandipa couldn’t help the rising daily irritations of a commuters life. If only she were able to get a car and avoid all of the inconveniences and fears of public transport. Then again, there would be the fear of getting hi-jacked or smash-and-grabs or running out of petrol. She looked out at the various groups across the large compound, each waiting at a bus shelter for their respective destinations. A group of high-school kids in one area, dressed in greens and greys, were blaring music from a phone. A few thin-lipped adults around them, no doubt in disapproval of the lyrics the kids sang  too without care of shame. Along one side of the square were restaurants all bustling with people catching an evening snack or perhaps dinner. She touched her school blazer pocket and considered getting a pie from Pie City. She wasn’t sure how long she would wait for anyway, so she rose and began walking towards the purple and white sign. She walked past one of the bus shelters, the sides covered in pamphlets and signs promising all types of wonders and miracles. Usually she walked past with a smile, wondering how gullible people could be to believe that a mere man could make a potion that brings luck or love or make relationships whole again and other nonsense. Only this time she caught sight of a coloured picture that had a brain and five large words in thick black ink:


Know it before it happens. If only. She thought. How useful would it before to know things before they happened, then perhaps should would have less fear of being mugged or missing the bus or anything if she could just know when it would happen before it would happen. She was still exploring the possibilities of foresight when a taxi suddenly swerved towards her, the driver staring right at her below a black leather cap. His red eyes bore through her, the roar of the large vehicle rising along with screams from all around her and from within the taxi. No fear overtook her. Her body remained still and her mind calm. She had every right to be afraid and yet – nothing. Just as the vehicle was about to smash into her, the world stopped.

Deafening silence took over.

The taxi-driver was gripping his wheel tight, the knuckles pronounced on his dark skin. Two men on the passenger seat had squeezed their eyes shut, hands clasped in fear. The other passengers in the vehicle had their own surprised faces, a couple of them even leaning forward to see what the fuss ahead was all about. Looking back at the taxi driver, she noticed that his eyes were not looking at her but past her. She turned around and leapt back in shock at the man behind her. He had a dark face with deep lines spreading from his eyes and on either side of ruby-red lips. Thick grey hair cascaded down into a long beard that fell down to his bare chest. Thin animal skin strips slung from his shoulder down and across to his waist, where a traditional Zulu IsiNene hung down the front and iBeshu down the rear,  -aprons made from calf skin.

“Nandipa my child.” the voice was deep and soothing, the words spoken in isiZulu. She took another step back and struck the taxi. A moment later the door opened and the taxi driver stumbled out, rushed to the man and fell on his knees before him, pulling the cap off his head hastily,

“Induna!” Petros cried. Nandipa shook her head, absolutely sure this was all a dream or a coma induced hallucination from getting knocked down by a taxi. But her eyes caught sight of a pigeon in mid-flight frozen still with a piece of bread suspended out of the creature’s beak. It was no dream.

“Hey! Nandipa! Get down!” the taxi driver hissed at her, breaking her trace, and when she didn’t comply, he rose hastily to his feet and gently tugged her down until they were both on their knees before the man.

“Don’t worry, she doesn’t understand the old ways, but she will.” he lifted his hand and placed it atop the driver’s head. “The time has come Siphokazi Petros Nxumalo. We must begin preparations – for a war is coming. A war that will require all the warriors we can get.” The old man turned to Nandipa, who raised her eyes to his and froze in fear before the rheumy green eyes.

“I know your fears, my child.” He said, placing a hand atop her head. She felt all her past fears swim to the surface, her insecurities and worries and doubts all bubbling through her heart, mind and soul. “But I’m afraid all of these are nothing compared to what is to come. Siphokazi here will be your guide.” The old man’s eyes faded to black and then he too was fading. Siphokazi – Petros – rose to his feet and jumped into his taxi, assuming the same position he was in.

“You might want to get out of the way, everything is about to come back.” Understanding, she moved away from the taxi, and just in time too as the world rushed back to normal and the taxi screeched to a halt, burning rubber and leaving black skid marks across the paved floor. He rushed out the taxi towards her and started shouting obscenities to her, but his face bore a smile . He eventually handed her a card, jumped back into his taxi and sped off. Nandipa was still reeling from it all as she tucked the card into her blazer. She glanced over at the purple Pie City sign and decided she wasn’t hungry after all.

Oh gosh I don’t know if I’m going to edit this story right now? I just finished it so it may have some issues. Let me know what you think of the story, I hope you were not put off by any grammatical errors. This is how most of my unedited works look haha.

Oh prompt courtesy of Rachel Poli. Actually I wrote this and then Rachel’s prompt arrived in my mail and I was like “How does she know what I’m writing!?”

Time To Write: Show Your Character’s Biggest Fear

Friday Fiction: 2055 – Council

I got enough requests to continue this little story to decide that I will make April Friday Fictions the 2055 story. I’ll also be adding the chapters to my Wattpad.

2055 by Nthato Morakabi

2055 by Nthato Morakabi

The leaders from all five commonwealth states were in attendance for the 10th official leaders meeting. État central de l’Afrique was playing host, in what was once known as Central African Republic in the old days. They were located in an underground bunker, erected during the course of unifying the African countries. There would be no security breach.

Although the dignitaries had sworn to never withhold any information that would hinder the UCA from gaining the upperhand against other countries, Statesman Lungelo Mkhize was not willing to give up Abie Prinsloo to the United Commonwealth of Africa. Not yet anyway.

“That man was able to subdue an entire compound on his own, without ever firing a weapon. He is an asset the UCA must have in their possession.”

Akinyi Cisse had folded his arms across his chest during the brief, but now they were held above his head in frustration. The sleeves of his shirt had slid down to reveal a tattoo along his arm.

“We are aware of this.” the oldest of the leaders said gently. His dark eyes, however, were bearing down on Lungelo. The older man’s lips tightened before he spoke again,

“Explain to us once again why Abie Prinsloo is being kept prisoner, worst of all, within your own precinct.” The other leaders sat forward. Lungelo cleared his throat and reached for the glass of water on the table to gather his thoughts. Once he placed the glass back on the table, he also sat forward.

“We do not know what happened. As far as we can see, Abie has no recollection of the events following his meeting with this girl he keeps mentioning. We do not know what he is capable of. It would be unwise for us to send him back into the field untested.”

He was hoping the leaders would be nodding in agreement, or at least showing some emotion other than distrust, but clearly that was asking too much.

“We do not need him in the field,” Stateswoman Olamide Turay finally said, “What we need is a way to dispel all notions from the other nations, that we are incapable of defending ourselves as the UCA.” She sat back in her chair as the other leaders nodded their agreement. She continued,

“The technological advancements of the USA far exceeds our own. Bio-mechanics in Asia put them as industry leaders with their renowned Artificial Intelligence. The UK have literally fortified their walls. Europe is in bed with all the other nations and can’t be touched. And what do we have? Nothing!

“We are the only ones who appear weak and Abie Prinsloo is the first step towards not only strengthening Africa as a nation, but leading the power race.” Lungelo reached for his glass of water again but kept it in his hand,

“And that is exactly why we must keep him from the others until we can truly test his capabilities. Do you not see this?” Lungelo was losing his cool, which was never good in these situations. The other leaders were as ruthless as he could be had the tables been turned.

From the other end of the table, Akinyi ran his finger across his side of the conference table. A satellite image of the incident appeared in front of all the other leaders. They watched as Abie Prinsloo made his way out of a building, each step a laboured effort, his arms straight down at his sides as though held there. Not a single bullet was fired even though he was surrounded by enemy forces and a moment later, everyone except Bravo squad had fallen down. Simultaneously. At that moment, Abie turned his head towards the sky, towards the screen they were all staring at, footage from a satellite orbiting the earth. It was without a doubt what he was looking at. Them.  A moment later, the screen turned dark.

I hope you enjoyed the next chapter of the tale. Let me know what you think and any suggestions you might have. 

My Wattpad Profile: Nthato Morakabi


Back to Life – Read to Write


Quite recently I found myself on a new continent, experiencing a whole different culture, people, custom…language (surprisingly… and yes I mean English) and quite frankly a whole new world. Although this post isn’t specifically about America, it is about something that I learned while I was there about myself.

Reading; one of my first loves as a boy, a worthy exercise that revealed to me hundreds of exciting adventures, an intricate number of amazing characters, worlds and lives that I could immerse myself within, taking me out of the mundane of life and transporting me to the intrigue of books. I remember days spent in the playground under the shade of the stairs, reading one of the many books I’d been able to get from the library. I remember the smell of the library and its books, the feel and texture of the pages I thumbed through and the joy that reading gave to me from that young age until now. It was through those many pages I’d spent my time in, that I realized I wanted to do the same; I wanted to tell a story I would enjoy as much as I enjoyed the books I read. Hence the real reason behind this post. Reading led towards writing and now I see a full circle happening where my writing is leading me to read.

It became evident as I struggled to write my own stories that the reason I was struggling was due to the fact that I had not fed my creativity, articulation and narrative basics. I had completely neglected reading for games, music and necessity; but where exactly was I to find the tools to aid me in my writing? Well in the very object that brought my desire to write – reading. Therefore I made it my point to read as much as I could, especially on the long flight from Africa to America and especially during the 10 hour layover in Germany.

With all intentions shoved into my backpack in the form of a thick book and a cellphone loaded with eBooks, I set off. What I had not expected from all this reading however, was for the reading to help not only with my writing, but to ease my mind back to earth when the body was tired and the mind was racing. I’d sit down with either my phone or, soon afterwards, a book I’d bought at a Thrift Store for a $1.50, and just thrilled in the joy of reading again.

I learned much from reading about writing but more importantly, about myself. I discovered that reading just made me feel human again and it is a feeling I look to continue to enjoy for the rest of my life.


In response to:

Challenge Day 7 – A letter from a sailor


16 August xxxx


As I am sure you are aware, I am rather excited about the prospect of travelling the wide, churning expanse of the seas on what can only be described as a masterpiece of a ship – the Eidolon. It is said to be a ship of Greek heritage – though one can never be sure. Mother has been quite adamant that I remain home, fearing that I would suffer the plague, scurvy or a severe case of sea-sickness but I have assured her that no such thing will occur. The captain, a rather mellow old man whose teeth have aged as well as his hair (that is not at all), has been meticulous in running his ship; a certificate hangs upon the door of his office that affirms this.

To answer your condescending question regarding my affinity for drink, let me take this time to let you know that Missus McKenzie and I have separated… and yes alcohol had become my refuge, my soothing comfort and my lullaby. However it is not the reason for my want to leave this place.  No you see I seek the adventure of the seas, the billowing winds, the rising tides – the call of the captain from the helm. Forget the drink and the flaxen haired maiden that stole my heart – the adventures of the high seas will be far more satisfying! Far more!

Tell mother that I will send her gifts when I can. Anticipate my subsequent letter for I will be writing from within the ship!

Your Brother

Rxxxxx Wxxxxxxxx


03 Novemebr xxxx

It seems that the time I have for writing has not been as frequent as I’d anticipated, however I have managed to pen this to you in the spare time that I’ve found. The captain has been kind enough to send this to the postal office for me as I have quite a bit more chores to do than what I first assumed there would be.

I am sure you are laughing your head off as you read this, your delusional brother knee-deep in chores when he’d spoken of storms and adventures and high sea adventures. Alas it has been more than a month since my departure so you can imagine the amount of work that must be done before we can embark on any adventures. I spoke to the captain and he corroborates this fact to me daily as I scrub the decks, polish the wood and shine the brass. But soon we will be fending off pirates, navigating the deep churning waters and crossing oceans to visit exotic places; the captain speaks of a land on which one would find people such as ourselves though their skin is as sand (the colour not the texture) and they speak in a language that tickles the ears.

I hope you have found the broach that I placed with the letter; it is a broach that the captain has so kindly offered to me that I may pass it on to mother. How is mother? I trust her health is well and that you too are well, sister? The broach, the captain claims, once belonged to a queen of a place he called Ejeept (I am unfamiliar with how it is written) and that the broach is sure to ensure long life and prosperity for any who adorn it. Though you know I do not believe in such superstitious nonsense, I think the sentiment behind the gesture is worthwhile.

Well, let me be off, I wouldn’t want to  take too many liberties with captain when he has been so kind to me. I hope to write to you again soon (with tales of adventure and bravery ha ha!)

Your Brother

Rxxxxx Wxxxxxxxx

P.S. The captain has been talking in his sleep, something about Amphitrite or Salacia and I wonder who that is. Maybe it’ s his wife who passed away. I should ask him more about her…maybe that will comfort him.


You won’t believe it!  Do not think that I jest when I tell you the tale that unfolded right before my very own eyes. Ha sister, are you laughing now? I know I am, for your brother has been an avid participant in a skirmish involving our ship and a pirate ship – yes we were in an intense battle. Let me divulge the details pertaining to that particular encounter.

The captain and I were sailing smoothly along, across the bright glistening waters; the chores complete, captain had hauled out from his desk a bottle of bourbon for us to enjoy as a treat for a successful day’s work (yes, yes I know but we did not drink that much I assure you!). The captain, his thin frail hair billowing with the breeze and a half drunk smile lighting up his face, had tipped his captains hat at me in a gesture of playfulness. I was roaring with laughter, the captain’s antics and a bit of the alcohol’s inundating influence a contributing factor to the jovial atmosphere on the ship. Suddenly, in a burst of wood and glass shrapnel, with the captain’s hat lying tattered at our feet, the boat quivered, followed by the animalistic howl of what could only be pirates. We rose from where we sat, the captain barking orders to prepare the ship, raise the sails and ready the cannons. The enemy ship rolled out across the seas, smoke billowing from its faring nostrils, awaiting the subsequent cannon fire from their dark chambers.  I was, of course, not merely standing around taking in the magnificence of the enemy ship – oh no, I was peddling out our own canon, rolling it out towards the open cavity, awaiting the command of the captain. When his gruff, old-man voice barked at me to “FIRE” I lit the fuse and almost blanched with fear as the canon ball boomed out of the canon, rocketing towards the enemy ship in a haze of gunpowder and smoke. With much exuberance I danced for joy at my first canon fire only to hear subsequent fire from the enemy ship. The captain had gone silent and I was, for a second, struck with fear and trembling. Not a second later, our ship exploded in wood shrapnel, brass pieces and frayed cloth, flying about me like confetti at a wedding.

How we survived that skirmish I do not know, but captain claims that his jewel from that foreign place he calls Ejeept, rescued us from certain death. I assert that the captain has been deeply affected by the battle as he now constantly calls upon the name of his dead wife (I may have mentioned her in my previous letter) as though she were the ship itself. Nonetheless we have survived and the ship, I found, was in surprisingly good condition considering the battering it had endured.

Well I must go tend to the captain now, his calls for Amphitrite( whom he also refers to as Salacia) have become of themselves a nuisance though I do find at times that I hear a second person reply to his conversations but I attribute that to the wind. After all, only the two of us are aboard this vessel and I sure am certain that no such superstitious nonsense exists on this planet of ours.

Your Brother

Rxxxxx Wxxxxxxxx


02 February xxxx

Sister I am in need of your assistance. The captain…well the captain has indeed become lost! He mumbles away prayers and supplications to this unknown entity that pervades our ship and I am afraid. Afraid not of the entity or for the captain’s sanity, but my own too. You see, she speaks to me too and I assert that it is because of that blasted amulet! (If you can pry the amulet from mother’s hands, please do. I fear I may have been wrong in my assumption that nothing exists between this temporal plane we live in and the ethereal.) I have found myself eyeing the captain’s amulet, seeking it for myself – I’ve been tempted to snatch it away from his bony fingers, and escape into the azure depths below. Oh but I fight the temptation daily, fend it off with chores, chores and more chores.

I will be sending this letter by means of a courier once we reach port (should we ever reach port with that old man’s ramblings!) and I do wish to return home soon – that is my desire.

Your Brother

Rxxxxx Wxxxxxxxx


Mrs Wxxxx Wxxxxxxxx

It is with our sincerest condolences that we, the National Naval Office write this letter to you to inform you that your brother, Rxxxxx Wxxxxxxxx has been found adrift along the northern coastal line of Africa. He was clutching within his hands an amulet which has been sent along with this letter. We also do regret that his body has gone missing and we are urgently attending to this matter, looking to resolve it soon. We are following reports of his sighting in places near to his home town and that he is heard calling for Amphitrite but I assure you that these rumours are false and we will get to the bottom of this mystery.


General Txxxxxxx Lxxxx of the 12th Brigade

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