journey through

I met a racist He abused me for my colour and I called him out for his lack of colour. He said I was a coloured, a man painted in the colours of inferiority, vigour and violence, and I said he was whiter than dying summer leaves, white, drained, plain and pallid. I met a racist, with his wildly flayed nose trying to sniff out mediocrity from our woollen hair and brains. The sharp stab that is a racist’s tongue, and I felt his burn. He had with him bars of soap, various bleaches and remedies to bleach the dark out of us. I met a racist in the corners of the village. He called us all out and gave us doses of the light, a remedy to pull us out of the dark. He gave women weaves to cover their ‘sisal’ hair and the young men music to dance to. He gave light to the old women, those who still drunk their potted beer and chewed tobacco. He gave them alcohol in bottles and cigarettes that fit the status of people deep in the warm thighs of civilization. I met a racist in town. He was dressed in

The archer I met an archer someday. He was walking with a quiver on his back, a quiver without arrows and a bow without a string. He had cracks, nay, rifts on his feet, the product of years of valour and bravery, of slips and mishaps. His voice was like the rasp of a machete against the file, rough, hoarse and lost. He was a man who basked in the glory of his past and existed on the denial of his present. He was a man stuck in his heydays, a man who refused to move on from those moments of grandeur and fervour; the days when he hunted them all, the eagles and the guinea fowls. He was a man who refused to acknowledge that the sun did set and time ran away from him. The look in his eyes I still remember, long and deeply etched in a past gone and forgotten. His hand were calloused, skin hard and rigid. He was a hunter then, an archer that shot them down, but now then he was just an archer, an archer with broken arrows. I met an archer, a hero in his own eyes. He sang his own song and dan

Oh refuse Oh sorrow, my comfort in the cold times and dark days, I refuse to let go of your cold hug. I refuse to let go of your limp hand and your sagging flesh. Refuse to leave, oh refuse. I love the silver; not the glow of the light but that of the shining mist. I love the dew, not out of the flowers but the one in my eyes, splashing down on the cold, hard ground. What a comfortable feel when the grip tightens around my neck, what a comfortable feeling when the force of the water crushes my chest. Oh beautiful clouds of sorrow, let your fumes block my nostrils and lungs. Let them bind my hands and legs till I drown. I will stand with you and by you, caterpillar, till you become a butterfly. I will stand with you, little wave till you make a tsunami. I will guard you, little breeze till you become a whirlwind. I am happy on my path, this path crawling with snakes, scorpions and spiders, free of bees and dead of flowers, free of sparrows and hummingbirds, yet full of vultures and rav

Why hast thou forsaken me? The long fall to the hole with no end and no edge, the long drop into the dark deep where the sun never arrived, nor rain drops ever penetrated. Why hast thou forsaken me? Knives and shards of glass, steel wires and neglected nails will break my fall. It was bad out there, but it will be worse down here. I shall be a carcase soon, left to rot like all those who fell before me. You won the game, you won the battle, take your trophy and go on home. Take the trophy and walk home. Take the accolades, beat your chest and gloat to all those who care to listen. I tried battling you, angel of death, but how could I win when it is you who made me feel alive when dead? You taught me to find you in the noise; little did I know that you lurked behind every silent whisper, not in the whirlwind but deep in the heart of the breeze. For a moment I thought I had a reason to believe but nobody was really there to tell me that I was being stupid. Nobody was there to tell me th

When you left I remember that day, the day you left and your stomach took over. We did not say anything or lash out at anyone. We became busy working to feed the bottomless abyss and the overinflated ego. We forgot your name and place in society. We died the day you left and your stomach took over. We buried laughter and humour and in its place grew sadness and despondency. We lost our lives and our hearts were full to the brim with death. When you left the children felt the space and the adults felt the gap. Our fear grew by the mile and there was no one to calm us down when we became unsettled. We had to fear being alive more than we did being dead. Some of us lost their lives but all of us lost our hopes. Though we did not thin on the outside, our will, our strength and our ambitions starved, for when you left and your stomach took over, we could no longer move, for it had cast on us a shadow long and dark that terrified the sleeping and the awake. It left fingers of nightmares tha

When the bird got uncaged They always told her tales of life in the trees, night spent staring at the sun setting and the mornings when they all woke to chase the glow. They never told her of the nights out in the cold, lonely and alone, the nightmares of the night and the anxiety as they awaited the sun to rise. They told her of how they swam in the meadows and partook of grubs and dew. The other birds told her of how they bathed in the dust, raced around, sang and danced. They never told her about the bald eagle that chased them around and the hawks that took their children away. They told her of their colourful nests with colourful eggs. They never told her about the snakes that fed on them, the jealousy among the barren birds and the squabbles over territories. The macaw told her about the nuts and the hummingbird told her of nectar, but they never got to tell her about how tough their shells were or how frail the flowers were. The honey bird told her about the honey, but she did

The portrait of a woman One day when running across the jungle of hopelessness, taking in the sun of despair and listening to the whispers of the bitter past, I came across a gathering, of men and women, children and adults. They were all staring up at a figure, a goddess on a pedestal. Their eyes were full of tears, tears of hope in the midst of despair, their hands clasped in silent supplication. I went near and as soon as I got into the midst and trained my eyes, I heard a roar, a lusty cry sodden with passion and liberation. I saw fireworks and shooting stars. When I stood there that day and her fist went up the whole crowd went wild and I knew that a lioness had been born. That moment frozen by cameras and newspaper will never leave my mind. That moment will never be drawn on canvas with brush and written in ink but it will be permanent in our hearts, for that day we saw a true portrait, the portrait of a woman. That day when I went to see I didn’t hear the soft breath and gasp o

When you did it You planted a garden, the garden of hatred and grew around it a hedge of jealousy and envy. You cultivated it all, watered and dug around, gave it the attention of a farmer to his tender crops. They did not disappoint you. They grew to become full plants and your hedge finally got to mature. You always wished for a way to get to them, a way to attack their inner core, and insatiable desire for destruction and revenge.  You wanted barbs to throw; why now don’t you pick them off your hedge? You wanted to have all their dreams, why now are you complaining when their nightmares float outside your house? Every night you plotted in your bed, how you would overthrow the amateur kingdom, wishing to take it all and condemn them to hell. Where is your happiness now? You envied their red lips and their full tummies, the way they walked and the way they talked. You wished you were them, that you would swim in all they had and play in all they wanted. Why now do you complain when t

That long shining cloak I know that cloak, that long shiny cloak that birthed hope in me, that long white cloak that gave me purpose and a reason to live again. I know of that cloak that wiped away my afflictions and invited in hope and salvation. If I could a chance, I would hold on and not let go. If you called me out tonight, I would answer and follow the light, that light coming from the mighty shining cloak, up the steps and down into the deep. Show me tomorrow; carry me away in your sweeping grace. Someday my journey shall come to an end and I shall know that I never travelled in vain. We shall all know that the barefoot journey on a pebble-filled road was not in vain. I shall follow that long shining cloak through the valley of darkness and death. I shall walk alongside my refuge and tuck in when the night is too dark. I shall cling to it when I feel like the end has come and I shall be made new. I believe in the long shining cloak and someday I shall get to bridge the gap betw