How I pine for South Africa’s muffled cries and drowned tears to be noticed

“Didier Drogba is just over there, but what does that do to help me?” As the harmonious discord of the vuvuzela imbues the glossy stadiums swathed in the sickening glow of African democratic pseudo-success, South Africa’s reality is laden with mass poverty, unemployment, inequality, crime and death. The World Cup simply acts as a diversion, fixing a shameless, unflinching barrier in front of the harsh actualities of day-to-day life. We flock to the Rainbow Nation in a forced migration of millions who will leave as quickly as they came; money is doubtless injected but where does it go? The tournament has the opportunity to make a difference. Yet it doesn’t. Images of laughing, smiling African children adorn our television screens, as though the lure of the dancing pixels can allay our anxieties about their reality. How I wish that this World Cup was ameliorating global society in the way it …

This is our ides of March – we have been warned

As a veil of iridescence casts a forlorn shadow over the undulating waves of the Gulf of Mexico, and Mt. Eyjafjallajokull spews plumes of volcanic ash into the high atmosphere, we are left wondering. Albeit that the latter was unpreventable and not a result of humanity’s destruction of the environment, one thing is certain: these stark, humbling reminders of the fragility and power of Mother Nature should prompt action. We have been confronted by one warning too many. It was one Robin Williams who kindly mentioned to us that using clean coal is a bit like wearing a porous condom – at least the intention was there. The trouble is that when it comes to the environment, good intentions don’t quite cut it. No one hacks down a tree for a laugh, or decapitates an endangered giant panda for a cheap kick, or burns some fossil fuels for a sneaky …

“Working like a machine? Have a break. Have a Kit-Kat.”

In the shadows of a trade worth up to $80 billion per year lurks an industry notoriously shy of scrutiny. As we gorge upon our favourite luxurious treat, we don’t spare a thought for those involved in its production. A cloak of hideous secrecy tucks exploitation away, safe from ubiquitous discovery. The reality is harrowing: beneath the rich, luscious surface of our sweet delight resides a clandestine dystopia filled to the brim with the veiled stench of child labour. As helpless mothers mourn for their kidnapped sons in Burkina Faso, we shove chocolate bar after chocolate bar down our throats. There is something poignant about the fact that those who make our chocolate never get to taste the product they slave so desperately over, not to mention that they aren’t even paid and undergo dangerous manual labour with machetes and blades. It beggars belief that this injustice manages to skate …