Not to be dramatic, but it's jarring to see a literary zine or media publication end its run. I see the last editor's note—the goodbye letter or Instagram post—and I feel a gut-wrenching disruption, like when I was five or six years old, watching my dad dig a hole in the garden, only to realise weeks later that my dog had disappeared and no one was explaining why.

​

I remember university holidays—literary submission sessions—on my teenage bedroom floor, scrolling through established literary magazines and media platforms, submitting work, getting rejected, getting accepted, reading other people's work with jealousy, reverence, and admiration. I drooled over website layouts and cursed the South African postal system for making it difficult to acquire physical publications. Most of those magazines have shut down now.

I found South African publications. Actually, I met a lot of Moyé staff and my now co-editor Ashley at a workshop after our writings were published together. They too have closed down. I have been to three Young Writers Initiative writer-a-thons, once as an audience participant and twice on the panel of literary magazines. The writer-a-thon has an enriching, diverse programme, but I always paid attention to the lit mag panel. They made it a point to invite young people. When I saw 12 to 18-year-olds starting their own publications with no permission from anyone, I was amazed. Six student-run platforms times three writer-a-thons. Most of them have ended their run as well, and those that are still running do so with more frequency.

​

Even the magnificent free-for-alls we'd be given at school at the end of the year had their run clipped. I remember my classmates being kind of bummed by that—I. Was. Gutted.

​

What I find most jarring about these publications is that some of them had more resources than Moyé. Some had more influence, with editors who worked for Button Poetry and The New Yorker, more money, more followers online and in person, and a physical space to run in. If they didn’t stand a chance, what about me? But honestly, it’s not about me. When I tried to end Moyé's run twice, Moyé pushed back. Yes, I am the editor, yes, it starts with me, but it’s just that. In some cases, it only starts with me—I am only the inciting incident. What's strange is that these moments of pushback are an assertion of care, love, and strength.

​

If I am ever in bad health, overworked, and dogged—miraculously, the workload is eased off my shoulders. Ashley springs into action, Theo gets things done in an impressive manner, Raea spawns work and edits in a short span of time. I check in, and everything is done. I have found the same care from our audience; delays are met with understanding and sometimes encouraged for a better final product. Typos and spelling errors are perceived as quirks and laughed off.

Once, I had let a poisonous critique contaminate me, and it seeped into Moyé, so I tried to end the daily prompts. We received DMs asking where they were. A high school friend I hadn’t spoken to since year 10 called me. In this day and age, she called me and told me that those daily prompts might seem arbitrary, but as an engineering student, she implemented a small dose of creativity into her morning routine. When I can’t fund Moyé out of pocket anymore, my family pushes back and chips in. I think the universe pushes as well—sending birds, sometimes people, to give encouragement randomly, and time delays that put me in the right place at the right time.