HAROLD MAWELA

I live in Akasia, Tshwane—a place where jacaranda trees bleed purple over **brick barriers**, and the hum of generators **grumbles** alongside the **chaotic chorus** of hadedas at dawn. Last week, during another **soul-sapping session** of load-shedding, I sat in the **swallowing dark**, my phone flashlight flickering over a Bible propped against a Rooibos tin. The verse glared: *“If we confess, He is faithful to forgive” (1 John 1:9).* Outside, the neighborhood buzzed with **frustration and fury**—a fitting metaphor, I realized, for unrepentance. When we refuse to confront our shadows, we **surrender to the suffocating silence**.   ### **Footholds in a Fractured, Fuming City**   Pretoria is a **palette of paradoxes**. Union Buildings **glisten like gilded ghosts** over squatter camps; tech startups sprout in apartheid-era warehouses. Yet beneath the surface, South Africa simmers. This week, **Diepsloot’s despair** erupted into violence—just 50 km from my home. Headl...

 Last Tuesday, during Eskom’s Stage 6 load-shedding, I sat in my dimly lit kitchen in Akasia, sipping rooibos tea by candlelight. My neighbor, Mama Dlamini, shouted over the fence: *“Haai wena, Harold! Even the stars are load-shedding tonight!”* We laughed—a sharp, defiant sound cutting through the darkness. In that moment, I realized something sacred: **joy is not passive; it’s a rebellion**.   ### **Joy as Voltage in a Darkening Grid**   South Africa knows darkness. We’ve memorized Eskom’s schedules like psalms. But what if our collective *amandla*—our power—isn’t just in protesting failed systems, but in refusing to let despair hijack our spirits? Nehemiah 8:10 isn’t a platitude; it’s a strategy. When the Israelites rebuilt Jerusalem’s walls, they did so with “joy” as their scaffolding. Today, our “walls” are crumbling infrastructure, political cynicism, and the haunting legacy of inequality. Yet, joy rebuilds.   Last month, I visited a township in ...

Last Tuesday, Eskom’s schedule declared Stage 6 load-shedding in Akasia. My fridge sighed, my Wi-Fi died, and my phone buzzed with alerts: “Crime up 30% in Tshwane this quarter.” I stood in the dark, my mind racing like a minibus taxi late for its route—*stress* humming louder than the generator next door. But instead of scrambling for candles or cursing Eskom, I did something radical: I sat. On my porch, under a sky smudged with Pretoria’s apricot twilight, I let the chaos fade. I remembered Jesus napping in the storm (Mark 4:38). *What if rest, here and now, is my act of defiance?*   **South Africa’s Burnout Epidemic: A Nation on Empty**   We’re a country running on fumes. Load-shedding isn’t just about electricity—it’s a metaphor. Our economy sputters (unemployment at 32.9%), protests flare like veld fires, and WhatsApp groups buzz with conspiracy theories. We’ve normalized exhaustion, wearing busyness like a badge: *“I survived four-hour queues at Home Affairs!”*...

Last week, while pruning the thorn tree in my yard—a stubborn thing that thrives despite Pretoria’s dry winters—I thought about how poverty grows. Not the kind measured in rand and cents, but the *mindset* that whispers, “There’s never enough.” South Africa knows this thorn well. We’re a nation where 32.6% unemployment claws at hope, yet our real crisis isn’t empty wallets—it’s imaginations starved of possibility. Jesus called greed a “root” (Luke 12:15), and roots, like that thorn tree, dig deep before they’re seen.   This week, *News24* reported a pastor in Soweto arrested for selling “holy water” to desperate congregants. A scam, yes, but why the queue? Because scarcity theology sells: “God’s blessings are scarce—buy your share!” Contrast that with the early church in Acts 4:32–35, where “no one claimed private ownership.” Radical, right? Yet here, in my neighborhood, Mrs. Dlamini bakes extra *vetkoek* for the kids playing soccer in dusty streets. Her kitchen smells like de...

Last winter, as load-shedding pitched Akasia into its nightly ritual of shadows, I faced a decision that shimmered with sinister allure. A job offer landed in my inbox—a senior slot, salary soaring, a corporate crusade cloaked in cryptic terms. The timing seemed celestial: my toddler’s tuition had tripled, and Eskom’s endless outages had turned our home into a cave of candlelit chaos. But as I sat in my study, a battery beam barely battling the blackness, Scripture stirred my spirit: *“Test every twist, taste each truth”* (1 Thessalonians 5:21). The offer glittered, but I paused—holy hesitation halting hasty hands.   **Allegory in the Blackout:**   Load-shedding, South Africa’s sly saboteur, is more than mere inconvenience—it’s a masterclass in metaphor. When the grid groans and gives up, we’re thrust into a primal performance of prudence. Do we pounce on the petrol-powered “bargain” from a Facebook flyer, or wait, wise and watchful, for sustainable solutions? My nei...

I’m sitting in my Akasia living room, typing this by the shaky glow of a rechargeable lamp—Eskom’s latest "surprise" load-shedding session has plunged Pretoria into darkness again. But here’s the thing: my neighbor, a retired electrician, just rigged a solar panel to my Wi-Fi router. Across the street, Mrs. Khumalo is boiling water on a gas stove for anyone needing coffee. We’ve become a patchwork power grid, a living metaphor for what the Church could be.   ### **When the Grid Fails, the Light Finds a Way**   South Africa knows about fractured systems. We’ve seen service delivery protests in Tshwane, xenophobic tensions flaring like veld fires, and political scandals that make *Generations: The Legacy* look tame. Yet, in this chaos, I’ve noticed something: *disunity disarms, but unity improvises*. Last month, my church hosted a nighttime prayer meeting during Stage 6 load-shedding. No microphones, no projectors—just 200 believers huddled under cellphone lights, sing...

Last Tuesday, Eskom plunged Akasia into darkness—again. Load shedding Stage 6. My fridge hummed its last sigh, and my Wi-Fi died mid-email. But instead of cursing (my default reaction), I fumbled for a candle. As the match sparked, I laughed. *Typical South African moment*, I thought. There I was, a grown man in pajamas, debating whether to microwave *pap* or just surrender to Provita and cheese. But in that flickering light, something shifted. I texted my neighbor: “*Braai* at my place? Bring wors.” Two hours later, we were laughing under the stars, our makeshift *kuier* lit by phone torches and a paraffin lamp. Gratitude, I realized, turns load shedding into a block party.   **The Alchemy of Thankfulness**   Gratitude isn’t denial; it’s defiance. In a nation where headlines scream “Eskom Collapse!” and “Crime Stats Soar,” choosing thankfulness feels radical—like planting roses in a landfill. Paul’s command to “give thanks in everything” (1 Thessalonians 5:18) isn’t...

 I wake to the hum of generators in Akasia—our neighborhood’s anthem during load-shedding. The lights flicker, but my phone glows with a verse: *“The Word of God is living and powerful, sharper than any two-edged sword”* . It’s 5:30 AM, and the world feels heavy. Last week, a friend in Karenpark whispered about her son’s overdose. Down the road, a Somali shopkeeper boarded up his store after xenophobic threats . In a nation where 30% of youth are unemployed and pit latrines still claim children’s lives , faith isn’t a luxury—it’s a weapon.   Like David, I’ve learned to carry stones. Not the smooth ones from Elah’s brook , but verses tucked into my soul. Last month, during a protest over water shortages in Theresapark, I stood with a neighbor who shouted Psalms 115:14 into the chaos: *“May the Lord make you increase, both you and your children.”* Her voice was a slingshot.   ### **The Tongue as a Sling: Words That Split Darkness**   Jesus’ rebuttal to S...

I live in Akasia, Tshwane—a suburb where jacaranda blossoms carpet the streets in October, and Eskom’s load-shedding schedule dictates our rhythms. Last week, as Stage 6 plunged us into darkness, my neighbor’s generator roared to life, its hum drowning out the crickets. “*This* is how you survive South Africa,” he smirked, bathed in the glow of stolen electricity. I sat on my porch, Bible in hand, a solar lamp flickering beside me. The contrast felt prophetic: *human ingenuity vs. holy reliance*.   ### **The Sword of Surrender**   James 4:7 isn’t a motivational meme; it’s a war manual. Obedience as a “sword” cuts through the noise of a nation addicted to quick fixes—whether pirated Wi-Fi, corrupt tenders, or spiritual shortcuts. South Africa’s crises (40% unemployment, rolling blackouts, political theatrics) mirror our soul’s load-shedding: we’re desperate for light but distrust the Source.   Take our obsession with generators. They’re literal and metaphori...

 The lights flicker again. *Eish*, another load-shedding night in Akasia. My laptop battery blinks red as I fumble for candles, their shaky flames casting shadows on walls plastered with sticky notes: *“I am more than a conqueror.” “Divine acceleration is mine.”* These are my prophetic declarations, scrawled in desperation during blackouts that mirror South Africa’s collective sigh—2024’s coalition government wobbles, Eskom’s eternal drama, and a youth unemployment rate [hovering at 60%](https://www.statssa.gov.za/). Yet here I sit, whispering Isaiah 55:11 into the dark: *“So is my word… it will not return to me empty.”*   But what does it mean to *declare* in a nation where even the ANC and DA’s marriage of convenience feels like a telenovela script? Where TikTok prophets peddle “breakthrough oil” while real prophets [warn of coups](https://believersportal.com/2025-prophecies/) in our backyard? My journey into prophetic declarations began not in a megachurch but at a spa...

 The earth here in Akasia cracks like a parched throat. Last summer, while Pretoria’s reservoirs dipped to 20% and our municipality rationed water, I planted a garden. My neighbors laughed—*“Why waste time on dirt that won’t drink?”* But I’d read Isaiah 54:1 the night before: *“Sing, O barren one… enlarge your tent.”* So I sowed marigold seeds in defiance, whispering prayers over each one. Weeks passed. Nothing. Then, after a rare drizzle, green shoots pierced the dust. Today, those marigolds blaze like tiny suns, a testament to what happens when faith digs its heels into despair.   Barrenness, I’ve learned, is not just a physical condition. It’s a spiritual posture. As South Africa grapples with rolling blackouts, political disillusionment, and a youth unemployment rate of 45%[^1], we’re a nation intimate with waiting. But how do we sing when the soil of our souls feels sterile?   ### **Theology of the Unseen Harvest**   Sarah’s laughter in Genesis 18...

I sat in my Akasia living room last week, the hum of a generator battling Eskom’s latest load-shedding stage. Outside, the streets of Tshwane flickered between darkness and the glow of phone screens as neighbors traded memes about our national pastime: complaining about the lights. But in that dimness, I thought of Isaiah 53:5—*“by His wounds we are healed”*—and wondered: *What if our collective darkness is a metaphor begging for resurrection?*   **Allegory in the Blackout**   Load-shedding isn’t just a power crisis; it’s a spiritual allegory. We’re a nation wired for struggle, yet somehow, in the blackout, we’ve learned to light braai fires, share generators, and laugh at the absurdity. Isn’t that the Gospel? Christ’s crucifixion was history’s greatest “blackout”—a moment when the Light of the World let darkness swallow Him to rewire the circuitry of sin. His resurrection? The ultimate “Eskom bailout,” except this power never fails.   Last month, during a ...

I live in Akasia, Tshwane, where the red earth clings to shoes like unresolved grudges. Last month, a neighbor spread rumors that I’d stolen her mango harvest—a modern-day Edenic drama, except our serpent was a WhatsApp voice note. My first instinct? To storm her gate, fists full of rotten fruit. But Romans 12:14 hung in the air like Pretoria’s jacaranda haze: *“Bless those who persecute you.”* So, I baked her a batch of *koeksisters*—sticky, syrupy, and disarming. The gossip died faster than a load-shedded freezer.   This is the South African paradox: a nation where WhatsApp groups fuel chaos, yet Ubuntu whispers, *“Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu”* (A person is a person through others) . We’re a country wrestling with its ghosts—land reform debates crackle like veld fires , Afrikaner separatists in Orania lobby Trump for statehood , and Miss SA contestants like Mulisa Mudau battle colorism with crowns . In this maelstrom, how do we silence slander without losing our souls? ...

Last Tuesday, as Eskom’s schedule plunged my Akasia neighborhood into yet another bout of load-shedding, I sat in the humming silence of my dim living room, nursing a throbbing migraine. My phone buzzed with alerts: *Stage 6 until further notice*. The darkness felt visceral, a metaphor for the weariness many of us carry—not just from power cuts, but from a nation teetering between hope and despair. South Africa’s 2024 elections loom like a storm cloud, our economy’s unemployment rate (still clinging to 32%) gnawing at communal morale, and Tshwane’s potholes mirroring the cracks in our collective faith. Yet, in that moment, I reached for a candle and my Bible, its pages falling open to Isaiah 53:5: *“By His stripes, we are healed.”* The flickering light cast shadows on the words, and I wondered: How do we claim divine health in a land where even the lights don’t stay on?   **Theological Allegory: Load-Shedding the Soul**   Load-shedding, that uniquely South African pu...

  I live in Akasia, Tshwane, where the jacarandas paint Pretoria’s streets with purple hope each spring. From my modest home, I watch the city hum—buses rattling down Paul Kruger Street, hawkers calling out at the Wonderpark Mall, and the chatter of students spilling from TUT’s gates. Life here is vibrant, yet beneath the surface, many of us carry an unseen weight: shame. It’s a thief that whispers lies about our worth, chaining us to past mistakes or societal labels. As a Christian writer, I’ve wrestled with this shadow myself, and I’ve learned that only one truth can break its grip—our identity in Christ. Let me take you on a journey through my own story, weaving it with the tapestry of South African life and the radiant promise of Scripture, to confront shame and embrace who we are in Him. ### A Personal Tale of Shame’s Grip A few years ago, I stood at a crossroads. I’d just lost a job I loved—a writing gig at a local magazine in Pretoria. The editor said my work was “too confro...

I remember the day I realized I was spiritually entangled. It wasn’t some dramatic Hollywood moment—no thunderclaps or burning bushes. Just me, sitting in my favorite coffee spot in Menlyn Mall, scrolling through old messages from a toxic relationship I thought I’d left behind. Yet, there it was: an invisible tether, pulling at my peace like a stubborn WhatsApp notification that won’t mute.   Soul ties are like Eskom’s load-shedding schedule—you don’t realize how much they control your life until the lights go out. Emotionally, we stay plugged into people, habits, and even memories that drain us instead of powering us. The Apostle Paul warned, *"Do not be unequally yoked with unbelievers"* (2 Corinthians 6:14). But let’s be real—how many of us have ignored that verse like a "Terms and Conditions" pop-up?   ### **The Theology of Detachment**   Breaking soul ties isn’t just about blocking an ex on Instagram (though that’s a good start). It’s a **spiritual sur...

In the heart of Akasia, where the summer heat presses down like a weight and the power cuts leave us fumbling for candles, I found myself stewing in resentment. Last month, during one of Eskom’s notorious load-shedding slots, my neighbor—a woman with a laugh as sharp as a butcher’s knife—accused me of stealing her generator fuel. The truth? Her son had borrowed it and forgotten to mention it. But in the dim glow of my phone’s flashlight, her words felt like a betrayal. Bitterness, I realized, is a sneaky thief. It doesn’t kick down your door; it slips in through the cracks of unmet expectations and unresolved words.   **The Jacaranda Paradox**   Pretoria’s jacarandas are a lesson in contradictions. Their roots are shallow, yet they survive our droughts. Their purple blooms carpet the streets each October, a fleeting beauty that outshines the gnarled branches beneath. I’ve come to see these trees as holy ironies. Like the Christian heart, their survival depends not on...

Here in Akasia, Tshwane, where the jacaranda trees cast their purple shadows over our bustling streets, I’ve been wrestling with a familiar thief—procrastination. It’s not just a bad habit; it’s a spiritual saboteur, whispering excuses as it steals the fruit of God’s calling. Living in Pretoria, where modernity hums alongside deep-rooted faith, I’ve seen how this struggle mirrors the broader South African story: a nation bursting with potential, yet sometimes stalled by hesitation. As I sit in my study, the radio buzzing with news of load-shedding schedules and the Springboks’ latest triumph, I’m reminded that God calls us to act boldly, to tend the vineyard of *now* with purpose. Let me share a personal story, weave in some theology, and invite you to confront this thief head-on—with faith, wit, and a prayer for divine productivity. ### A Personal Tale: The Unwritten Sermon Last month, I was tasked with delivering a sermon at my church, a vibrant community Impartation Church. The the...