His Stare

I still remember his stare,cold brown pupils dim with fatigue. His retina crimson white polluted by anger,a patch of daily tears down his cheeks meander.

Large gulps of saliva down his galet ,his lips cracked by dryness “letha le-phone!!” ,he demands 

His stare begs…

“Awungizwa..” He dips his slender palm into his pocket,draws out a sharpened rod.

But his stare waves a white flag,his ciliary muscles slacks,his voice cracks.

he blinks,his stare is replaced by tears.

Acoustic.

Gogo will sit on her plastic matt,the sound of friction as her worn out marrows rub.She folds her bipedal limbs…

 Her wrinkled slender fingers will beat at the chords,in a slow slow hypnotic tune,her blood will pulsate at the very vivid connection with the rhythm…

Drawing a breeze,her diaphragm will heave..as if the molecules of her oxygen were bonded with musical notes… 
The Acoustic.

Casualties Room

She sits across me in a hospital waiting room one morning…
..her cheeks are crimson tenders of red ,with magical dimples…delicate landscapes of concaves..
..her eyes are crystal hugeness, beaded like glaring convex..
You can see them vertebrate ,ciliary muscles taut to accommodate distance..
..I can’t fathom the depths of this  trance ,she occasionally steals me a glance…little Tinkerbells doing back flips in her lens ….muscles slack she blushes, as if between her retina and optical nerve exist a Kingdom of fairies ,the side of her cheeks hollows ..her lip flowers blooms ,her decay infested teeth glows….sparks on the spectacles firmly fixed down the bridge of her nose….
” Africa….Africa…”
In a distance,echoes of her luring voice…
“Africa…” It gets hoarse,I wake up..
Shaken by a psychiatrist nurse,
“You’re are next.”
…across me, in the wall is a chart of a muscled skeletal of a woman.

Africa.

Rivers.

Some need a heavy down pour,some just a drizzle…to nurture them….moisture them…
Some are perenial,some are periodic…..
Some flow undetered from source to mouth,while others meander…….
Those that are weak are threatened by those that are rejuvinated…stealing their loved ones,a course that misfit…
Those that avoid deltas and reaches the gorge, takes the fall for greatness…..while those that don’t, dries out…waiting for another season of rain…

 

Kasi Cargo.

I was in a taxi this morning…
Listening to the domestic Auntie’s latest critics,the pattern of their shaming talk has an intense diversity…
“NaMabuza got beaten brutally..” the concerned tone is cushioned by agony ,their analysis varies from newly recruited Nyaope addicts and latest teen pregnancy.
Behind them sits two drunkards ,flaunting their ability to keep a woman…one believes its wealth ,the other praises the skill of a man in bed…from their heated argument reeks a pungent scent..a mixture of booze and sweat….
…the driver manoeuvres his noisy cargo through blurs of puddling drizzles….with ease he twirls his wheel to avoid half burned tires,stones and trees ,the weapons of yesterday’s service delivery protest..
Two teenagers in uniform brag about how many cherries they harvested, one beats his chest proudly ..counting the number of foetus his girlfriend have aborted..
….next to me sits an Indian ..he looks at me and his mouth bend into a bitter scowl…is it sympathy? ,he has a sinister smirk ….observantly he indulge on the deceitness of the self destructed Africans..
…the khumbi’s creaky speakers blusts out in Simphiwe Dana’s voice painting the aura with a background harmony “Mayine..mayineeeee…”

Africa.