The Rock & The Flower (part one)

In our attempts to heal and rectify what wrongs have been inflicted upon us, as well as those we inflict on the self, we have lost much of who we are.

For it is not with the waters of compassion that we have chosen to feed the seed of change within and all around us, instead it is with monsoons and tidal waves of rage, defiance and vengeance. Who we are is not a reflection of the capitalist, imperialist or tribalist status quo.

We are not pawns for the culture of cash (consumerism) and credit. We are not the manifestation of ideals pushed unto us by some foreign power and oppressors, and we are not the result of one group’s actions towards us.

We are creations, first and foremost, of the creator. All of us.

The girls and women of the world are not slaves to the whims of man. They are not instruments which we, as males, ought to pleasure ourselves with. They are not to be shackled, literally and figuratively, to the concept of perpetual victim, weakling, feminist or dominatrix.

They are, in their truest light, queens. Each and every one of them. No exceptions.

The daughters, sisters, mothers, friends, grandmothers and goddesses. All of them, leave for none, are queens.

It is not for any man or woman to delight in the subjection or oppression of any woman. It is the responsibility of all who inhabit this world to remove the false ideas of woman that have been perpetuated by external and internal forces.

I can find no single individual or event to be blamed for the obvious deterioration of the rock (woman), and the decay of the flower (girl-child), that is her virtue, integrity, pride and soul.

In that same breath, without shifting the blame to another, we must all be held accountable. You, me, him, her. Everyone.

The woman who believes herself to be smaller or greater than any other holds blame. She who belittles others in order to shine is a vacuum, not a light. She devours the light of others, and through that one act becomes a monster unto herself and others.

The woman who cowers under pressure of others holds blame. She victimises herself more than any other person, man or woman ever can. Shrinking in the face of adversity fixes nothing. It is much like a scab left to fester. The scar gives of a stench that attracts those who prey on the helpless and weak.

ah, woman.

Woman.
sing me between the lines of your verses
plot me through the pages of your book.
body like a song.
Voice like the colour yellow.
The stanza in the poetry of my blues.
And I already told you
she’s way too mellow
for soul,
so she lives it.
strums it with her lips
plucks it.
pounds it with her hips
Have you seen
how she walks it.
ah, woman.

--

Namaste

Political Foreplay

Politics this, politics that.
Ever stopped to wonder what politicians are saying.

The language of politics is much like ikota (bunny chow), where russians are thrown in with atchar, chakalaka, polony, egg, bacon, viennas and a dollop of spices. Just for shits and giggles.

Words like accountability are as hollow as the promises one makes to another during foreplay. Mumbled whispers to the effect of; I love you so much I’ll buy you a plane are as reliable as promises of accountability during election time.

Political language is loaded.

Stuffed to capacity with deception, misdirection and outright lies, political promises are all part of the smoke and mirrors of foreplay. As soon as one understands that, then when a politician is quoted as saying something that resembles selflessness to any degree it is to be expected that someone’s about to get screwed.

That’s because we should be old enough to know that one goes through foreplay as a means to an end, not for the sheer thrill of being rubbed up the right way and left turned on.

Next time you get an earful of political foreplay, whip out a condom and remember to ask for taxi fare in the morning.

Namaste

Ndiredi

i am ready
for the monsters of anarchy
and the masters of liberation
to choke out the life within me,
grab my frail sanity
and hold steady
on their promise
of deliverance.

i am ready
for the socialists
to capitalise on the angst of the victimised,
to continuously sodomise
the spiritually crippled and
i am ready
for the "capitalist niggers"
to socialise over the corpses of vain believers
and hold high drinks with religious deceivers
and trample on the dreams
that reality is based upon.

i am ready
for the political preachers of economic salvation,
the robe-shaming individuals of truth deprivation,
those spit-on-you, spit-on-me, "i-built-this-nation"
shit talkers.
i say i am ready
for the shameless "i-am-eternal"
velvet conscience, red carpet crawlers,
those - living to die for betterment wishes,
dying to live in sky high shacks,
drowning in a puddle of instant riches.
i am ready.

i,
yes.
i.
am.
ready.
for them "bring-me-the-world,for-i-am-the-saviour's-sent",
those crooked self idolising patriarchs of stupidity hellbent
on choking the life within me.
you will not have me.
i.am.ready.

indeed
i am ready
to dismember the lies painted
across the history of this soul
i am ready
to capitalise
on your fear of losing sight
"you-blind-fool-that-see-nothing,not-even the light",
i am ready

i am ready
you cannot stop me
i am ready
you shall not sway me
i am ready
and you shan't have me
i.
am.
ready.


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This piece is an old one. I guess for the sake of posting something (worth reading, I hope).


Namaste

Unpublished

Please, don’t get published.

No one wants to die without publishing something, even if it has little meaning or adds no value.

That’s because some of us who want to remain in the hallowed hallways of libraries and educational institutions have nothing more to offer the world than the regurgitated, paraphrased and misquoted theories and ideas of others. This is not a result of a wanton lack of meaning or value within ourselves. Far from it.

Getting published and becoming a bestselling writer seems to be on every person’s bucket list.

This means that even though, month after month, manuscripts are churned out and turned into book-club favourites with official sounding ceremonies popping up quicker than mushroom churches, more of these best-sellers and literary-prize winners are worth less than local swazi sativas found in the shadiest part of town.

Baby steps. Before you publish, you must edit, credit and re-edit. Before that, you must write. Just before that, research – a book that was never researched reads like a manual in a foreign language. Useless. But first, read.

One last time: read, research, write, edit, credit, re-edit.

Namaste

The Hole My Writing Went To Die In

When you find out that even one person reads your blog, you will start writing absolute rubbish. And that’s not a vodka ad.

After long periods of binging and round-about deliberation I have stumbled upon the solution: stop writing.

If writing is for you, it will make its way back to your loving, and over-protective, arms that suffocate the creativity out and wring out any sense left in your ego-centric posts. Otherwise, you’ll be writing blogs about your new girlfriend (the third one this month), popular fad-theories (are gay people born that way), how you intend to quit your job (as if you can afford to pay the electricity bill that keeps the laptop you use to post mundane things on your meagre wishful-salary), and your latest travels (how you planned over 4 months for a 3 day trip into the uninsured part of town). Wow.

It gets worse.

You start posting essays worth of pompous first-class garbage to some anonymous okey’s comment. You feel inclined to explain yourself, so that “your readers” can “get” you. And then you become one of “those” people who never miss a chance to put quotes on random words to make emphasis and in the hopeless attempt to seem slightly intelligent and wildly interesting.

It’s really that bad.

All because you wanted the real you to be known and understood by the three people that faultlessly revisit your blogs for a sign of sanity – only to be met with more of your nonsense.

Writing is an art, not a science. You can juxtapose a noun next to a punctuation mark and sprinkle verbs and adjectives all over to make it look pretty, but as one oke might say; garbage by any other name smells just the same.

Namaste

Wise People Say A Whole Bunch

Whether its sages, soothsayers, naggas or oracles; wise people, or at least those that we refer to as having a general sense of wisdom, are quoted to say a whole list of things that often don’t make sense at first glance. Other times these things they say, these wise people, leave me questioning the very nature of wisdom.


Who spends an afternoon stalking a spider or following ants? Where do these people get the time to look at a wet wall and walk away with an insight? When I gaze into a freshly painted wall, all I walk away with is a slight dizziness. That’s it. No revelation of the earth’s wonders and absolutely no sign of an insight.

I was taught to believe that being idle is not wise. How much of a rush do you think one has to be in to follow an ant? None at all. So, what’s the rush?

And do you know that the reason why wise people have no friends is a direct result to the origin of their awe-inspiring anecdotes, statements and revelations? I confirm; wise people bite from their friends.

And that’s what makes them so wise.

Namaste