We are forever…
We endured the bite of the flagellum,
And survived the blade of the guillotine.
A Broody Hen.
© copyright reserved.
I let her pass then pace up my stroll,admiring the below her thighs part of her limbs where knees bend in for a quick kiss when she walks; like collapsing pillars under the weight of her beauty.
I grasp hold of her chubby wrist,
…the connection of our epidermis igniting electric sparks with audible clicks,a gasp escape my lips…
My skinny frame feels suddenly too heavy for my knees,as my throbbing heart threatens to rupture my ribs.
Time take a knee for a moment, while my rationality abscond with my ability of speech.
Numb and mute, i let her free…and watch her leave.
: Africa Zwelibanzi ’18
Dambe – A form of boxing associated with the Hausa people of West Africa. Historically, Dambe included a wrestling component, known as Kokawa , but today it is essentially a striking art. The tradition is dominated by Hausa butcher caste groups, and over the last century evolved from clans of butchers traveling to farm villages at harvest time, integrating a fighting challenge by the outsiders into local harvest festival entertainment. It was also traditionally practiced as a way for men to get ready for war, and many of the techniques and terminology allude to warfare. Today, companies of boxers travel performing outdoor matches accompanied by ceremony and drumming , throughout the traditional Hausa homelands of northern Nigeria, southern
Niger and southwestern Chad .  The name “Dambe” derives from the Hausa word for “boxe”, and appears in languages like Bole as Dembe .
Sguru – A Fight.
“sguruu!! sguruu!! sguruu!! sguruuu….”
It was within a chanting circle where i got my first fist beating. First we stood there striking our best Kung Fu stances ,
Long before he clenched them into solid knuckles……..i could almost feel my tiny bones snap under the force of those solid rods ,four times the size of my puny fists .
Maintaining my most ‘menacing’ posture, with my diminutive stature ,the aftermath mock went that i
looked like a timid giraffe ,a wobbly calf…a cornered prey.
Unfinished Piece November.
My Grandmother’s Definition – The face of a home,the representative of the interior, the first and only thing from the inside that anyone can see from the outside.
Hood/Slums Definition – A tavern regular (always there)
This piece has been around since i was in grade 9.
The first time visiting my cousins for summer holidays,we went to this local alcohol den, a decrepit slum that looked like it survived years of consecutive tsunamis,
Before we sat down and enjoyed our strong black label lager,they looked at me with their piercing dagger eyes and demanded my full attention, they made me swear i would never stray from their very precise warning. When i finally agreed, i was warned to stay away from a certain ‘curtain’
That being my first time in place of that sort,not familiar with the jargon, i thought it was probably because she was the most prettiest person in that Tavern,
No inhibitions, no luxury,she wore her excessive confidence as an expensive fragrance. Her routines were short and intriguing whenever she decided to dance,she could twirl her waist as if it was mounted on a socket ,those luring occasional jerks and seductive twerks, that seemed to ignite sparks and exude a magnetic energy that captured the eye of naive admirer ,and of course, the prying eyes of the husbands who left their wives to seek pleasure where it is served without commitment.
Every time her body bent to the ridiculously fast music,it charged the air around her..
I realised after some time of indulging on her agile and smooth dance moves,that it was not how less she wore that i found appealing,but how much she kept hidden behind that bibulous state she gave a bit of herself every night to maintain .
Ufinished Piece November.
Rudo – Love (Shona).
This could’ve been a very great short story,love in the ‘new’ South Africa. Where Africans are called foreigners and amaKwerekwere . How do you express love in a place where hate is the official language?
Built like a sacred Mayan figurine, toned like over ripe pears ,
dun rings circling her eyes like boundary marks ,cautioning of the dangers of being lost in those naturally protruding windows of her soul.
Her chunky,dainty cheeks are sculptured delicately with inflated beauty..
Her hair sprouts out her head like a natural diadem .
However much she tried to ignore him,she could feel his stare burn little hearts on her skin, embroidery of love totems engraved to forever ignite a memory she so wish to erase..
Around him,her body erupts with goosebumps and itch for an embrace,
She chastise herself and feels betrayed by the pace with which her blood would race.
Unfinished Pieces November .
I am 6 days late,i meant to make November a month of letting go,the most important part in the process of recreation. I read once ,from a beautifully written drabble that unfinished pieces are like puzzles of a beautiful picture. Frustrating ,irksome and dreadful when you’re still trying to put your pieces together, but the end product is always worth it. They might be helpful in my writing at a later stage, i fully concur. But i feel like they are holding me back,quelling the urge to recreate and reinvent ,leaving no space for growth.
So this here is what i have been miserably dwelling on for a whole year and few months .Enjoy.
Mama needed not to be verbal to warn us,
It took one fierce facial expression to make us repent….
..that fiery stare ,
Eyes glittering with calm rage ,her deep brown lenses on pure white retinas flashing alert lights like pulsing arteries ..
Gritted teeth ,and taut forehead muscles bulging.
An intense moment of silence that screams:
“Retreat…or face the wrath of the stir!”
It still astounds me how that wooden spoon would suddenly appear,
Or how Mama’s rage would quickly dissolve into the thin air.
Unfinished Pieces November.
I have been dealing with chaos(i still am) Anxiety:
I liken it to a loud,pesky female mosquito,keeping me up all night…determined to sink it’s proboscis into my flesh and extract with my blood my confidence,injecting with it’s bite a disease of self-doubt …not only wounding my esteem ,but poisoning my soul.
Or more appropriately….
A voice of contention chanting war cries to incite conflicts between the hemispheres of my brain.
I am not defeated ,at least not yet. And this here is my first performance in 6 months, because i have been cancelling some and not showing up for some.
Down Second Avenue: Spoken Word Poetry Revival .
PoPArt Theatre ,Johannesburg ,Maboneng.
17 November 2018
Hope to see ME there!!!