Knock Knees (Belladona II)

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.

Poetry Monarch.

: Africa Zwelibanzi ’18

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Unfinished Piece November (Sguru)

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 . [1] The name “Dambe” derives from the Hausa word for “boxe”, and appears in languages like Bole as Dembe .

Sguru – A Fight.

Sguru

“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.

Poetry Monarch.

Unfinished Pieces November (Mama)

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

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.

Poetry Monarch.

Moulting ,Healing And Reviving.

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!!!

Her gait.

As if tired of carrying all that voluptuous beauty on herself..
She moves,
Slumberous …
.. with clumsy finesse ,
Her thigh long locks adorned with colourful beads moves in accordance with her every hip sway.
Her limbs carry her body like obedient lackeys…

….the rhythm of her strides, a nature choreographed gait.
As graceful as a well fed feline.

Poetry Monarch.

Chronicles Of A Petrol Attendant.

The Broody Hen (A Narrative )

Conversations With The Notepad.

Fiction.

Picture : Courtesy Of Chesterfield Sofas.

Just yesterday a very great friend asked me a question and i quote : “If there were no destinations and you could travel forever, what form of traveling would you take and to where?”
I said First Class Armchair traveling through a creative soul’s rich imagination ,exploring and sightseeing places beyond touch ,fuelled by the inspiration fanned smoulders of passion,the love for written arts and of course; the silencing of the nagging voice of scepticism . What there a better way to travel or place to travel to ??

Than through the path made of threaded words and within the minds and bodies of fictional characters that can take you as deep as the past and as far as the future , or the vivid narration that can dangle you just above the presence,with buoyant prophecy ; as if you were a superior being with the power of foreknowledge only without the ability of altering fate (and yes, the thrilling pleasures of suspense to constantly incite and intensify the anticipation ).
But then comes the most loathed and quite inevitable part of Armchair traveling for every avid reader . The Destination. Those little words often written in bold italics : “THE END” as if to forcefully yank you off the cockpit of fantasy. You dread turning the last page and wish for a sequel, however satisfying the resolution or denouement might have been . More so because you know that reality is impatiently waiting for you to digest and sober up from the stupor of the utopia . Panting like a tortured bull ready to pounce ,swollen and inflated with even more tragedies because every book you read makes you conscious of at least one more human error . The legendary Mark Twain was spot on when he said : “Books are for people who want to be somewhere else” .
My greatest respect to the fictionate sculptors for creating a place of refuge and refill .

The Poetry Monarch

Chronicles Of A Petrol Attendant.

The Broody Hen (A Narrative )

Conversations With The Notepad