John Makoni
Rosemary was a lively girl with enchanting eyes and ruby cheeks. We were in the same class in Grade 1. I could not muster the gumption to tell her how besotted I was, so chose to do it with part of my pocket money. My cleverer friend Edward agreed to be the messenger and would collect buns swathed neatly in white wrapping paper at the break to take to Rosemary. I waited for Rosemary to thank me for being thoughtful but nothing like that happened. The closest Rosemary and I would get was to stand next to each other and giggle or swivel on the “merry go round” together, seemingly enjoying each other’s company. That was before the whole thing ended in heartbreak, but not out of rejection by Rosemary. One day I caught Edward wolfing down the freshly baked buns in a corner, trying to shield himself from the passing, prying eyes. I forgave Edward but still think of Rosemary and constantly wonder what happened to her.
Arja Salafranca
There are many firsts beyond the obvious. The first time he comes bounding through your front window wearing a leather jacket at the start of winter, a jacket that you will remember through the years, the feel of it, and what it all meant. The first time you stay up till three, four in the morning, talking, and then more. The first time camping, lying on mattresses on hard Pilanesberg ground, but everything’s magical then, and even the hard ground has a charm to it, a pleasure that extends beyond and through your memory. And then the first time in a cottage in Clarens, in the Free State, a time when the village is not yet as popular as it will be years later. And looking at the goldeny-hued mountains of the Golden Gate reserve, and something has changed, shifted, the future as mercurial and unknowable as ever.
There are other firsts, too, the first time you plot revenge, thinking you’ll sew anchovies into his curtains and the smell will permeate the room for months after; or the first time you cry into the arms of his best friend while traffic roars past on Melville’s main road and you wonder how and where it all went. Or, the first time you attend a function, and he’s also there, as you move in the same circles, but you are no longer together, and the people who knew don’t quite know to treat you two as singles now.
But there are other firsts, the one who is not your first, who shows you the love that was missing earlier and reveals worlds to you that you had never suspected. Or the one who you, in turn, take in hand, and show the way. Knowing now, you’ll always be his first, that your name, for this one, will come attached with special meaning. Or the first, after years of denial, longing and regret, who comes through gently, tenderly, the scars of first love remain, that doesn’t change; but there’s a healing in that other, new first that goes beyond the pains of yesterday.
Steyn du Toit
We fell in love a couple of months before 9/11. It was the first time I was with someone who requited my feelings.
You introduced me to Loudon Wainwright III and I remember asking you what the album title meant. Unrequited, you said, look it up in a dictionary. It’s the worst feeling in the world, you said, much worse than losing a game of snooker. That irritated me. Today I suspect I irritate others in exactly the same fashion.
Even better music followed. Your coffee was too strong, and your flat only had a bath, but Cohen, Dylan and Bowie made up for it. I regret losing my temper with you when you told me Linkin Park were not very good.
I don’t remember the exact moment the Twin Towers fell. But I do recall a surfer – bringing back a camera borrowed from you. I felt jealous.
A decade has passed. I still have the copy of The Little Prince you left under my pillow. I’ve given the same gift to two others since. Unrequited, like you said, is indeed the worst feeling in the world.
I’m listening to Leonard Cohen’s latest album, as I suspect you are as well. I’ll send you a message about it sometime. By the way, I saw you this morning – you were moving so fast. Keep well, my friend, the stranger. - Sunday Independent