HAROLD MAWELA

There’s a pothole on my street in Akasia so deep I’m convinced it’s a secret gateway to the center of the earth. Every time I swerve to avoid it, I think about how much of life is like that—unseen dangers, hidden blessings, and the things we navigate by faith rather than sight. Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 4:18 hit differently when you live in a country where the visible reality often feels like a bad rerun of a telenovela—load-shedding, political drama, and the ever-looming question: *"Will the Wi-Fi come back before my data runs out?"*   Yet, here’s the divine irony: the things we *can’t* see—faith, hope, love, the Kingdom of God—are the only things holding this nation together.   ### **The Illusion of the "Real" World**   We live in an age where reality is curated. Instagram filters smooth out wrinkles, Twitter wars distort truth, and the news cycle spins so fast that by the time you’ve processed one crisis, three more have taken its place. In South Afr...

This morning, I walked the dusty streets of Theresapark, Akasia, past half-built security estates and sun-scorched gardens. My neighbor’s maize stalks curled inward like skeletal fingers, casualties of a drought the UN calls the region’s worst in decades . Yet, just meters away, cranes hoisted steel beams for Heatherview’s new “solar-geyser homes” , their glossy brochures promising a future where prepaid electricity and double garages offset the ache of a thirsty earth.   This is South Africa in 2025: a land where R1.4 million houses rise beside R650 monthly levies , where El Niño’s wrath starves cattle in Zimbabwe while Pretoria North’s property market blooms like a stubborn jacaranda. If that’s not divine irony, I don’t know what is.   ### **Thorns in the Tapestry: When “Bad” Threads Chafe**   Let’s name the thorns. This drought isn’t just weather; it’s a theological provocation. Over 24 million face hunger , Zambia’s maize crops wither , and my WhatsAp...

Last week, as Eskom plunged Akasia into yet another stage of load-shedding, I sat in the flicker of a candle, counting coins like a Pharisee measuring mint leaves. My toddler’s school fees had just doubled, and the rand’s dance against the dollar felt more like a funeral dirge. Tithing? It seemed as practical as planting a mango tree in a hailstorm. But then I remembered the *ubuntu* of my grandmother: *“Umntu ngumntu ngabantu”*—"I am because we are." Her words, steeped in Scripture and sweat, reminded me that obedience isn’t arithmetic; it’s alchemy.   Here’s the thing: God’s commandments aren’t a spreadsheet. They’re a symphony. When Paul writes, *“God loves a cheerful giver”* (2 Cor. 9:7), he’s not auditing our wallets but inviting us into a rhythm where duty and delight harmonize. The tithe isn’t a tollbooth; it’s the drumbeat guiding the dance of grace.   ### **The Vineyard and the Vault**   Let me tell you about Thabo, a mechanic in Soshanguve. Last y...

Last Tuesday, a storm swept through Akasia, snapping power lines and plunging my neighborhood into darkness. As rain lashed against the windows, I groped for candles, their flicker casting shadows on walls still sweating from the day’s heat. My frustration simmered; this wasn’t just about lights. It was the weight of a week where everything felt frayed—my car’s engine sputtering on the N1, a friend’s small business collapsing under red tape, and the gnawing sense that progress here often feels like running in quicksand. Yet, in that dim glow, Isaiah 1:18 flashed in my mind: *“Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.”* I chuckled. God’s timing is either impeccable or profoundly cheeky.   **Chaos & Covenant**   South Africa feels like a potter’s wheel these days—spinning wildly, clay flying. Our 2024 elections birthed a mosaic of coalitions, a fractured mirror reflecting our hunger for unity. Corruption scandals erupt like geysers, and ser...

I live in Akasia, Tshwane, where the Highveld sky stretches wide enough to hold every secret we’ve ever whispered. Last month, while dodging potholes on Solomon Mahlangu Drive, I ignored a nudging to visit a friend in Mamelodi. *Too busy*, I told God. By evening, my fridge hummed the mournful tune of Eskom’s load-shedding, and my toddler’s tantrum rivaled a taxi rank at rush hour. Chaos, I realized, is what happens when we trade obedience for convenience—a modern Jonah story, complete with a storm of mismatched socks and spoiled milk.   Jonah’s rebellion wasn’t just a “no” to Nineveh; it was a denial of his own purpose. Disobedience, like planting a thorn tree in the Karoo, guarantees a harvest of consequences. But here’s the twist: God’s storms aren’t vengeful. They’re surgical. That tempest in Jonah 1:4 wasn’t about drowning a prophet; it was about drowning his delusions. Today, our storms take shape as load-shedding schedules, water shortages, or the gnawing guilt after scr...

I live in Akasia, Tshwane—a place where jacaranda blossoms carpet the streets in purple each spring, and the hum of generators during load-shedding has become our national anthem. Last week, as I sat in darkness (again), scrolling past headlines about Eskom’s latest collapse and a youth unemployment rate soaring at 45%, my phone buzzed. A friend sent a meme: *“South Africa: Where waiting is a spiritual discipline.”* I laughed, then paused. Isn’t that the truth?   We’re a nation perpetually on standby. We queue for grants, for visas, for hope. Even our rugby-loving hearts still clench every time the Springboks teeter on the edge of a comeback. Yet here’s the paradox Isaiah whispers: *“Those who trust… will soar on wings like eagles.”* Not vultures circling decay, but eagles riding thermals—eyes locked on horizons unseen.   **Personal Story: The Runway Epiphany**   Two months ago, I boarded a flight from OR Tambo to Cape Town. We taxied for 45 minutes, the pi...

I’m sitting in my Akasia living room, the hum of a backup battery my only companion. Eskom’s load-shedding has just hit Stage 6 again, and the darkness feels like a metaphor for everything else—the rand’s freefall, coalition politics scrambling after the 2024 elections, that pothole on Johan Heyns Drive that’s become a local landmark. My phone buzzes with a news alert: another service delivery protest in Alexandra, another hashtag trending. Fear, like our infamous Highveld thunderstorms, rolls in uninvited. But then I remember: faith isn’t the absence of darkness; it’s the stubborn flicker of a candle in a room where the grid has failed.   ### **The Theology of Load-Shedding**   Let’s be honest—South Africa’s chaos mirrors the human condition. We’re all living in some version of Stage 6: relational breakdowns, financial blackouts, the eerie silence when Wi-Fi dies. Peter’s call to “cast all anxiety” (1 Peter 5:7) isn’t a platitude; it’s a survival tactic. Think of it...

 **Title: The Unseen Flame of Faith: Planting Seeds in the Cracked Earth of Tshwane**   **Scripture:** *“Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.”* (Hebrews 11:1, NIV)  Let me tell you about the morning I planted tomatoes in Akasia. It was August, the air still sharp with winter’s bite, and the ground parched from months without rain. My neighbor, Oom Piet, leaned over the fence, squinting at my shovel. *“Jy’s mal,”* he chuckled. *“No one plants in dust. Wait for the rains.”* But I pressed on, burying seeds in soil so cracked it looked like a map of the N1 highway. Faith, I’ve learned, is not waiting for the storm to pass. It’s planting in the storm’s shadow.   **Faith as Defiance: A Theology of Stubborn Hope**   Faith is not a spiritual vending machine—insert prayer, receive blessing. It’s a covenant of trust in a God who operates outside our timelines and algorithms. Kierkegaard called it the “leap,” bu...

Let me tell you about the morning I tried to plant a herb garden in my backyard. It was August—dry, dusty, the kind of Pretoria cold that nips at your fingertips. I’d bought seeds from a vendor at the Akasia Mall, along with a bag of compost that promised “miracles in 30 days.” Two hours in, my hands were caked in soil, my knees protesting, and the neighbor’s dog had dug up half my basil. Standing there, sweaty and irritated, I heard Paul’s question like a whisper: *“What do you have that you did not receive?”* (1 Corinthians 4:7).   Life here is a paradox. We’re a nation of hustlers—load-shedding schedules memorized, taxi routes navigated with Olympic precision—yet even our grit is borrowed grace. Last week, as Eskom plunged half of Gauteng into darkness (again), my WhatsApp buzzed with memes: *“Eskom: Teaching South Africans to romanticize candlelight since 2007.”* We laugh to keep from crying. But isn’t that the point? Our laughter, like our breath, is a gift.   *...

### **A Spade, a Seed, and a WhatsApp Group**   Let me tell you about the day I nearly cursed out a municipal worker in Akasia. It was a Tuesday—load-shedding stage 6, no coffee, and my neighbor’s dog had dug up my spinach seedlings. As I stood fuming in my driveway, a city truck rolled by, its driver waving cheerfully. My tongue coiled, ready to spit venom. But then I remembered Mama Lerato.   Mama Lerato runs a *spaza* shop in Soshanguve. Last month, during protests over water cuts, I watched her disarm a crowd of angry youths with three words: *“TTaangmo pele, bana baka”* (“Come inside first, my children”). She fed them *vetkoek* and spoke of her son, jailed for looting during the 2021 riots. “Words are like *mielie* seeds,” she said. “You can’t unplant them. Ask yourself: Will this grow a harvest or a thornveld?”   Her wisdom stuck. In South Africa, where every tweet, protest song, and family WhatsApp group debate feels like a battleground, we’ve forgot...

Last Tuesday, Eskom plunged Akasia into Stage 6 darkness again. I sat in my dim living room, the *"load-shedding survival kit"*—a solar lamp, lukewarm coffee, and a frayed Bible—strewn beside me. Outside, the hum of generators mingled with the clatter of protest songs drifting from Soshanguve. My phone buzzed with alerts: another minister arrested for corruption, a rand in freefall, and a viral video of a pastor claiming prayer could "bypass" Eskom’s schedules. I laughed, but my chest tightened. *Is this the valley we’re meant to walk through?*   Then I flipped to Matthew 6:13: *"Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one."* Jesus’ words felt jarringly relevant. Not because God dangles us over hellfire like a bored child with a beetle, but because we’re wired to grip false saviors—be they dodgy pastors, political messiahs, or that third cup of coffee at midnight.   ### **The Prayer That Names Our Fragility**   Let’s dismantle the myth: G...

  Pretoria, Akasia. The vibrant colours of the indigenous flora, a fleeting spectacle of South African beauty amidst the relentless, often grey, rhythm of modern life. Here, in this concrete jungle, where the hum of progress sometimes drowns out the whispers of faith, I find myself wrestling with a question as old as time itself: how do we truly grasp the unseen hand of God in a world that often feels so tangible, so… well, *concrete*? Hebrews 11:6 speaks of faith as the bedrock, the crucial ingredient for pleasing God. But what does it truly mean to have faith, to believe in the unseen, when the very fabric of our existence feels so stubbornly real? It's like trying to cultivate a garden in the cracks of a sidewalk. It’s challenging, yes, but the unwavering faith, that unseen gardener, is the very essence of our existence. Let's be honest, the modern South African experience is often a brutal reality show. Job losses, inequality, political complexities—the challenges are gla...

Psalm 5:12 speaks of God’s favor as a shield, a powerful image. But living in Akasia, Tshwane, where loadshedding is a daily reality, and the news screams of corruption and inequality, that “shielding” feels…abstract. It’s easy to feel like the arrows of adversity are piercing through, leaving us bruised and battered. Is God's favor just a comforting fairy tale, a nice thought to cling to during Eskom's latest power cut? My own experience, grappling with the recent economic downturn and witnessing the struggles of my neighbours, forced me to confront this. I saw a community grappling with unemployment, exacerbated by the current loadshedding crisis, impacting small businesses, and forcing families to make heartbreaking choices. The shiny shield of God's favour felt distant, almost mocking. However, I’ve wrestled with the theological underpinnings. Is God’s favor some kind of divine lottery, bestowed randomly upon the "righteous"? I believe the answer lies in...

The vibrant energy of Pretoria, a city pulsating with the rhythms of modern South African life, resonates within me, even here in Akasia, a testament to the nation’s resilience. The hum of city life, the echoes of our past, and the whispers of our future mingle in this urban tapestry. 2 Timothy 1:7, a verse that has resonated deeply within me, whispers of a powerful truth: "For the Spirit God gave us is not a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind." Fear, a shadowy, insidious serpent, coils around our hearts, whispering doubts, paralyzing our aspirations. But God’s Spirit, a roaring lion of love, stands ready to confront it. Recently, the news buzzed with the ongoing debate around our nation's economic struggles. The rising cost of living, coupled with the challenges of unemployment, paints a grim picture for many. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed, like the relentless concrete of fear threatens to crush the fragile shoots of hope. Yet, within this se...

The grey Pretoria sky hangs heavy today, a typical Akasia afternoon. It’s a backdrop to the daily rush of loadshedding schedules and the ever-present hum of political uncertainty. Speaking of which, the recent debate around the proposed changes to the BEE legislation has me pondering… what truly constitutes a “blessed” life in a nation grappling with such complex realities? 1 Thessalonians 5:18, that simple yet profound verse, “Give thanks in all circumstances,” feels both incredibly challenging and incredibly liberating in this context. It's not a naïve command to ignore hardship, to plaster a smile over profound injustice. Instead, I see it as an invitation to a deeper, more nuanced understanding of grace. Think of it like *ubuntu*, that Nguni philosophy emphasizing interconnectedness and humanity. Can we truly embrace *ubuntu* and give thanks in the face of inequality, the crippling effects of poverty, and the ever-present threat of crime? It's a question that has wrest...

From my study in Akasia, Pretoria, I look out onto the streets, a vibrant tapestry of modern South African life woven with threads of both beauty and struggle. Just like the veld outside my window, life here presents a choice: the well-worn path of integrity or the tempting shortcuts through the tall grass. Proverbs 11:3 – "The integrity of the upright guides them, but the unfaithful are destroyed by their duplicity" – resonates deeply in this context. This week, the news has been dominated by the ongoing debates around loadshedding – South Africa's persistent power cuts. It's a frustrating reality, a constant reminder of systemic challenges. But it’s also a microcosm of the larger spiritual struggle: the temptation to cut corners, to find a quicker, easier way, even if it’s ethically dubious. Think of businesses exploiting the crisis, hiking prices unfairly, or individuals gaming the system for personal gain. These are the shortcuts through the tall grass. My ow...

The air in Akasia hangs thick with the scent of braai (barbecue) smoke and the rhythmic hum of city life. I'm nestled here in Pretoria, pondering the paradox of instant gratification in a world that seemingly demands immediate results. My recent research into South African society, from the vibrant street life to the complexities of our political discourse, reinforces this observation. Everywhere, there's a craving for the quick fix, the instant win. But when it comes to matters of the heart, matters of faith, a slow burn is often the only way to truly experience the profound heat of grace. Psalm 40:1 resonates deeply with me: "I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry." It's not a passive waiting, a resigned acceptance of slow progress. It's an active waiting, a cultivation of the soil of our hearts, allowing the seeds of faith to take root and grow. Imagine a vine, delicate and slender at first. It needs time to anchor itself d...

The acacia trees stand sentinel outside my Akasia window, their delicate thorns mirroring the complexities of the Pretoria landscape. It's a beautiful backdrop to contemplate the heading that's been buzzing in my head: "Plug Your Home into God’s Wi-Fi." Sounds a bit cheesy, I know, but the underlying message resonates deeply. Especially in a South Africa grappling with loadshedding, Eskom woes, and the ever-present hum of political uncertainty, we need a power source that's unshakeable. We need God’s Wi-Fi. That Deuteronomy passage – "impress them on your children, talk about them…along the road" – isn't just about rote learning Bible verses. It's about integrating faith into the fabric of daily life, seamlessly weaving it into the conversation, just like we effortlessly discuss the latest Springboks game or the price of petrol. It's about making faith as indispensable as our smartphones. Remember when that viral video of the "Jerus...

The load-shedding in Pretoria, especially here in Akasia, is brutal. It's become a national sport, a grim game of "how long can you last without power?" But it’s also a striking metaphor for something much deeper: the spiritual load-shedding so many of us experience. We’re constantly draining our spiritual batteries, leaving ourselves vulnerable to the darkness that creeps in when the light flickers. Philippians 4:13, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me," isn't a magic incantation to ward off Eskom’s woes, but a profound truth about our connection to the ultimate power source. This week, I was at a braai with friends – a quintessential South African experience. The conversations veered, as they often do, from the Springboks’ latest match to the rising cost of living, to the anxieties of raising children in our complex society. Amidst the laughter and the boerewors, a palpable weariness hung in the air. We're a nation wrestling wit...

From my study in Akasia, Pretoria, I gaze out at the jacaranda-lined streets, their purple explosions a stark contrast to the often-gritty realities of South African life. The news headlines – loadshedding schedules, economic anxieties, the ongoing debates about land reform – are a constant hum in the background, a soundtrack to our collective striving. Yet, even amidst this, a deeper rhythm beats: the steady pulse of faith, resilience, and hope. It’s a rhythm I’ve learned to recognize, not just in the scriptures, but in the very fabric of my South African existence. Isaiah 40:31 speaks of renewing strength, of soaring on eagles’ wings. It’s a powerful image, but what does it *mean* in the context of a life lived in the shadow of power outages and the ever-present threat of crime? It's not about magically avoiding hardship. It's about something far deeper. The baobab, a symbol of Africa itself, endures drought and fire, its vast, gnarled trunk a testament to resilience. It...

The fig tree in Mark 11:12-14, seemingly healthy with leaves, yet barren of fruit, resonates deeply in this Pretoria morning. The bustling city outside my window, a microcosm of South Africa, presents a similar paradox. We see the outward signs of faith—churches brimming with congregants, community initiatives, even vibrant social media engagement. But are these merely the leaves of a fig tree, or are we bearing the tangible fruit of the gospel? The recent news, rife with social and economic challenges, starkly highlights the gap between the proclaimed faith and the lived reality. The need, in our townships and communities, is evident. This isn't an indictment, but a call to introspection. Are our acts of faith merely performative, like the fig tree's leaves, or are they rooted in a genuine desire to transform lives? My own journey is a case in point. Witnessing the hardship of families in our township, I felt a growing sense of urgency. Simply attending church wasn't...