BELLADONNA (The Poisonous Flower)

I let her pass then paced up my stroll, grabbed hold of her slender fingers cured with an alluring green.

She turned,agitation cushioned her face.Her acne turbulent and raw..I saw ,that freckles are not the only beautiful flaw..

…she glared deep into the depths of my soul,her enthralling huge beady eyes glittering with embers of a dying fire in the Hearth…”Hlukan’ nam..”(leave me alone)

.. Calmly she demanded,her dainty sternness like those of a mother scolding a child for mischievousness…

Broody Hen (Poetry Anthology )

The Narrative.

© Copyrights reserved

Read and Reminisce.

There were days when our everyday lives revolved around our own creativity.

When we’d chant excitedly under the sheet of drizzles “mayine mvula,sidle amathanga mvula..”

Every drop of mother nature’s nurturing rippled on our tiny bodies, trembling our frail physicality and evoked in us creativity we wholeheartedly embraced with smiles and pure joy….

Those mud houses were a demarcation of happiness,from those who owned a single pair of shoes and only had a porridge burnt crust and sugarless tea for breakfast, to those whose houses stand tall and dazzling above all the shacks in the neighborhood, there were hierarchies of course but food ,latest clothing brand,wealth had nothing to do with it…envy was a distance blur ,we did not compare but compliment….we knew who built the best wire cars,who was the fastest on our daily tyre race,who scored the most marbles ,who could climb the tallest tree for the ripest apricots when we were

out stealing ,half our faces covered with coaldust..

Who will out run us all at the slightest movement of the curtains and who will save us for an encore of our hide and seek games.

When we were at the streets we were all equal,this sense of importance your peers gave you regardless of your financial status,those true smiles and grudgless mocking for crying out loud when you took a beating for breaking your curfew ,made you endure the hiding with a smile and lead the crew with renewed courage for one last game when dark came the next day…

Broody Hen (Poetry Anthology 2018)

The Narrative.

© Copyright Reserved 2018


“Happy Women’s day Gogo..” Nomakhwezi’s indolent voice jerk a nerve in me…Mother swallows gulps of her forever dripping mucus.. “Ungubani wena?” Her decayed teeth no longer committed to their gums move to a rhythm of their own…as scattered as her memory…

Her once nourished skin now hugs her peeking bones firmly,dry arteries pulsate visibly with lumps of clotted tides…

Her eyes protrude in attempted strength,

Her eyebrows that were once healthy and ,like feathers of a fowl half plucked for a feast…

..the teacher of courage now frail and timid…the fetid scent of her sore blistered body lurks in the air…

Her head bald ,and pale….tight sinews of green muscles vividly spells agony….

…all the memories of her bold voice I held dear…now sail off in the sound waves of her pained half whispers….

Broody Hen (Poetry Anthology)

The Narrative.

© Copyright Reserved 2018