A JANUARY 2025 EDITION

I’m an adult the same way a tomato is a fruit.

Perched above the N’wanetsi River, Singita Lebombo Lodge sits lightly between rock and sky. The architecture opens itself fully to light, air, and horizon, turning the dramatic cliffs of the Kruger into both structure and scenery. Nothing feels imposed; the lodge reads as an extension of the escarpment itself.

Lebombo is inspired by eagle nests tucked into cliff faces, the suites hover rather than rest, minimizing contact with the land. A pared-back palette, open decks, and exposed circulation dissolve the boundary between built form and landscape, creating a sense of effortlessness that feels both deliberate and deeply respectful.

Life unfolds above the river. Elevated walkways, expansive decks, lap pools, and stargazing platforms create a constant awareness of height, movement, and time. The architecture encourages pause, not spectacle — allowing wind, sound, and shifting light to do the work.

Lebombo is its unapologetic mix of raw and refined materials. Timber, stone, concrete, metal, glass, rattan, and canvas sit side by side without hierarchy. This layered material language speaks directly to a South African design ethos that understands Africa not as nostalgia, but as a place of innovation, texture, and contrast.

Architectural structures disappear. The spaces feels held rather than built, framed by timber, filtered light, and the rhythm of woven screens that soften the boundary between inside and out. Furniture sits low and grounded, the horizon is never blocked. The landscape does the talking, and the design is all ears.

Lebombo rejects the overused safari aesthetic in favour of something sharper and more contemporary. The interiors are light-filled, sculptural, and quietly bold, offering a modern response to the surrounding bushveld.

For a long time, Dutch wax simply existed in my life. Worn, seen, lived in. I didn’t question it because it felt familiar enough to belong. It was always in the background and not something to interrogate. In my world it was a natural occurrence.

Once I learned its origins, that ease disappeared. Calling these patterns purely “African” began to feel too simple. Encounters like Vlisco’s retrospective at Museum Helmond made the story clearer, but also messier. History entered the room, and my resistance followed.
The 170year old history didn’t erase the affection, many Africans have for these fabrics. If anything, it complicated my position further. How do you argue against something so widely loved, worn, named, and culturally lived?

Today, I sit somewhere in between. I question the narratives, yet I acknowledge how deeply these fabrics have been claimed, styled, traded, and loved across Africa. I’ve learned to sit with the discomfort rather than resolve it. I can critique the colonial and industrial frameworks that shaped Dutch wax, while still appreciating the scale, craftsmanship, and cultural afterlives the industry has produced. Dutch wax exists today because Africans claimed it, styled it, traded it, and gave it meaning beyond its origin. African identity has never been singular or pure. It has always been layered, adaptive, and contested.

I’m back in my weaving research phase for the hyacinth project, again. This time I’m drawn to how Justin Telfer combines natural and manufactured materials without over-explaining them. It speaks to where my head is at right now. I’m thinking deeply about how my work can stand out and this feels like a starting point. This is not the final direction, just where I am currently.

A quiet pause in the studio, paired with what I’m listening to this week. The image above is from Christmas at home, where I kept stopping for wild flowers growing freely, mostly unnoticed. I’ll leave both here, until the next interlude.