Happy Birthday to our darling daughter, Deborah. Never a day passes where we don’t think of you. We think of you all the time and wonder why this has happened. We try to do our best and carry on. We grow the African plants that you knew and loved; oleanders, yesterday, today and tomorrow, Bird of Paradise, apricots and bougainvillea. When we see their beautiful flowers and smell their fragrance we recall happy memories, time spent with you. We miss you and you will always be part of our family. Love Dad, Mum and family. XXXX

Happy 57th birthday to you Deborah, our darling girl. I try to think you are celebrating today with Nana Fe Fe and Uncle John and everyone. We all miss you so very much. Always in my thoughts. Night, night and God bless. Love you always, your Mum. XXX

I’m in the mood for dancing ‘Strange light revolves around you You float across the room Your touch is made of something Heaven can’t hold a candle to You’re made of somethin’ new....’ You would have loved this song, Deborah! It is called, ‘Heaven’, and it’s by Niall Horan. Music critics say it has ‘A retro feel with a modern twist’ - It's got everything you adored; lively lyrics, an upbeat toe-tapping tempo, a catchy chorus and heavy drums that beat right through you, like African drums calling everyone to get up and dance! ‘You dance across the floor...’ I picture you in your red dress, high heels, skin all a glow, hair full of curls, vibrant and smiling, dancing over towards Mum and I on the dance floor - to get lost in the music. At every event, we were usually first up on the dance floor. We danced our way through life, through sunshine and rain; ballet and tap dancing classes, school dances, discos at youth clubs, discos at nightclubs, concerts, engagements, weddings, wedding anniversaries, birthday parties and of course Ian and Christine’s dos (the King and Queen of celebrations). Boy did we dance! I think we first heard those heavy drums at Belsize, beating out across the African plain, Belsize where we felt we were living on the edge of the world, where the land drops away to veld - bushveld peppered with mopane trees and a cluster of mud huts in the distance... It is dusk, drum beats slip through our yawning fanlight windows on the breath of the evening air, like distant rumbles of thunder, relentless beats that beckon and lure us out onto the patio. We stand beneath blossoms of banksia in the fading light, drum beats run through our veins in a quickening pulse, their rhythmic patterns radiate through our bodies and resonate in our minds. A rich texture of crickets chirping, toads croaking and dogs barking overlay each other, creating a happy harmony backed by the drums. We watch people weave their way through golden bush, like termites meandering along the paths, the drums beckoning them towards the mud huts, calling them to dance. The horizon devours the last sliver of sunlight, it smothers out the beauty of the day and brings the terrors of the night. Dad is away on call up, he’s taken his FN with him. I bargain with God, ‘Please God, I promise to be good just don’t let the terrorists come, Amen.’ I close my eyes - blow God a kiss with a sweep of my head to the left, I blow God another kiss with a sweep of my head to the right - the two kisses must meet in the middle, exactly in the middle - otherwise the terrorists will come. I turn from the darkness to the lounge window. I can see you inside, Deborah, sitting on the settee, our blue settee with its new flecks of purple, green and orange that you added when you coloured it in with your new neos, except you can’t see the flecks now, cos Mum sorted it by turning the seat cushion over, like she fixes everything by hiding it, swearing at it, scrubbing at it, smiling at it or shooting at it - if she has to. Mum will protect us, Mum will sit up tonight with the revolver, her revolver that rests on her wicker bedside table - both will lay there at rest but there will be no sleep as they wait for the dawn. Our lounge is illuminated, it is illuminated with Mum, our ‘Muvver’ who makes Eleanor H. Porter’s Pollyanna look like a pessimist. Our lounge is ablaze with light, our lounge is ablaze with our Mum. The window winks at me as Mum pulls a curtain shut. Dad is away on call up - but that also means elbows on the table, talking with your mouth full, feet in the sofa, our cats on our counterpanes, a whole packet of biscuits between the two of us and a toot load of television. I run from the darkness into the light, I run into our house - back to the millionaire biscuits that we bought less than three hours ago that are supposed to last us the week, back to devour the last chunk of biscuit left. You cut Deborah and I’ll choose. I switch on the telly; Little House on the Prairie, Dr Who, The Addams Family, Lassie... then our world plunges into darkness, Lassie leaves us, a solid blackness descends, our world is devoid of sound. Are the terrorists coming?’ ‘Have the terrorists sabotaged the powerlines? You and I freeze. Then... a voice, ‘It’s alright girls’, our mother’s voice washes over us like the perfect wash day, ‘bloody country’; her voice is bubbly, bright and breezy - more bubbly than emptying a whole box of Surf into the bathtub, so bright and breezy that a closet of freshly washed clothes would dry before midday. Then comes the sound of a match on a striker, there is a crackle and a hiss as a flame splutters and flares into life. Mum hands us each a lit candle in a wooden holder, the orange candles we got from Carols by Candlelight at the Salisbury Stadium. Our flames quiver, they look like two fat teardrops, liquid wax wells up at the top of our wicks and trickles down our candles, further liquid wax tears follow its course. We look to our Mum, she is illuminated - she brings light to the wicks of our candles, light to the room and light to our lives. Everyone seems to be dead or leaving the country, even Elvis is dead but Mum has resurrected him and Blue Suede Shoes is blasting out from her red and white record player and we dance. With the shortages, how did she manage to get hold of any record player batteries, did she pretend she was pregnant, like she did in the pharmacy to get a tin of evap? Ipitombi is playing next, ‘Tonight’s, tonight’s the wedding feast’, except there will be no wedding feast for Mumma Tembu tonight as we’ve changed the lyrics to, ‘Tonight’s the night we have no light’. Next, George Baker brightens our night with his ‘Morning Sky’, your very first record Deborah. The Reprise Records’ logo printed on the centre label zips round on the turntable, it even looks like the little ship is dancing too. Next up, The Dave Clark Five with ‘Bits and Pieces’ - we bang our feet on the parquet floor and try to make it bounce, like Mum did on the Brighton Regent’s sprung dance floor. We will bang so hard, we will frighten away any terrorists. We will dance, we will dance away the night, we will turn our darkness into light and our despair into hope and then... we will dance some more. Happy Birthday dearest Deborah. As the Stereophonics would say, ‘Have a nice day’. I am thinking of you today, tomorrow and always. Let’s keep on dancing Shamwari. Lots of love and hugs your number one sister, Best One - Anita XXXXX