A Place That Teaches Stillness.
Kirstenbosch Botanical Garden sits quietly on the eastern slopes of Table Mountain, held in place by beauty, history and stillness.
Akin and I have made it a purposeful habit to return there. It is one of those spaces that asks you to slow down, to look properly, to breathe more deeply. Walking through the gardens, surrounded by layers of green and with the vast mountain standing guard behind us, it feels impossible not to be present.
On our next visit, I plan to have a picnic. The thought lingers gently, stretched out on the grass, food unpacked slowly, with the magnificent view doing most of the talking. It is the kind of place where words would arrive easily and stories would surface without effort. The setting itself invites reflection.
With all this in mind, I found myself thinking about writing. About how memorable moments must be shared, and how history can only be preserved through the actions we choose to take today.
Decades of Story Telling.
I thought about Akin, and how for close to three decades he has been sharing his stories, the good, the bad, the weaknesses and the strengths.
There is a particular beauty in his ability to tell a story. It is never rushed or crowded, but shaped with detail in a way that allows anyone reading to step inside.
His writing does not assume knowledge or demand attention. It opens itself up, generous and clear, making space for understanding. That, to me, is a rare skill.
Being a writer is not only about putting words on a page. It is about seeing.
It is about noticing the small shifts, the pauses, the things others pass by. I believe a writer understands how to shape thought into something shared, how to translate complexity into something human. This is not learnt through practice alone, but carried instinctively.
Akin has that instinct. A natural gift. A quiet brilliance that does not announce itself, but reveals itself through precision, rhythm and depth. His technique feels effortless. Each sentence knows where it belongs, and each idea is given room to breathe.
As I imagine that picnic, sitting in the gardens beneath an open sky, I am reminded that it is a place rooted in growth, patience and careful tending, much like Akin's writings.
Stories, like gardens, require attention, honesty and time. When nurtured well, they become spaces others can walk through and feel changed by.
Today, I celebrate that gift in him. The writer who does not simply tell stories, but builds them with care. The writer whose words invite you in, and quietly stay with you long after you have left the page.
