Still The King, I Suppose?

I can’t help laughing as I read this book. If you ever thought Stephen King was all about dark, grimy tales of horror and gloomy thrillers; tell you what, you are wrong. During my high school days I read tons of King’s books and yes, they were horror stories but I enjoyed them nonetheless. In fact, he became one of my favourite writers worldwide. Right now, after so many years, I’m reading a Stephen King again. This one is entitled Hearts in Atlantis and it’s a collection of his novellas and short stories. I’m still on the first story and hey, this man took me off guard with this style of writing. He’s created this fragile young character who immediately won my heart and compassion. This story, told on the backdrop of the 60’s, is both fun and sad.  It is such an inspiring read. I find myself pausing now and then to jot down something in my journal.  Take away everything from me. But please, not my books.   

Ruthless Truth

In 2008, I watched my pen dribble on a page, leaving behind ink trails that filled the entire white space. What came out was a poem. I titled it ‘The First Time I Saw You, Was the Last Time I Saw You.’  The title was such a blatant truth, clean as a whistle.  This poem was written with deep emotions of a man whose day had suddenly become night and dawn refused to creep up. Hope and hopelessness were crashed into one pot and stirred into a murky blend – the kind of juice that was too hard to swallow, yet not that bitter. But in this man’s heart, he knew that this poem would rise up his sun again. But since time waits for no man, years came and passed by. Now it’s the end of 2012, and that truth is still the truth. Ruthless truth.  

My Alma Mater

I just revisited a collection of short stories by African writers and the power and intensity of the writings still spellbind me.  The plots, with which I can easily identify as an African, are gripping and the story lines summon a concoction of emotions - though I’ve read these I-don’t-know-how-many-times before. In his story, The Man, which was banned in his home country, The Congo, Emmanuel Dongala writes in a style and approach that squeezes tears off my eyes. Light-hearted and satirical language yet the deadly seriousness of the underlying subject matter hits like a full blow. Eish, the power of the written word!  Take anything away from me but don’t take my books...please. Books are my alma mater.  

12-12-12

December 12, 2012. Or 12-12-12 in short. There’ll never be a sequence of numbers like this again. There’s not gonna be 13-13-13. This year 2012 is very interesting indeed. To me it has been a very bad year. Sometimes I wondered if it really was true that the world is ending on December 21^st 2012. The way events have been unspooling for me, it felt like it led to the so-called doomsday. The kind I’ve seen in disaster movies like 2012, Knowing, The Impossible and many other apocalyptic films.  But I guess these are all ‘conspiracy theories’. Life is such a sweet cushion of feathers, neh?  

Thoughts of a Rusty Nail (Recently Hit on the Head)

One of my favourite African writers, Dambudzo Marechera, wrote;

The brain is stuttering. The days are reduced to rubble. There is nothing to Rain but water. Tell it the way it tastes. Pronounce it the way it touches. Let the singular fragrance waft softly into syllables. I am the end of the tunnel in my beginning. The answer to a question forgotten long ago.

I am the room in which something stirs, whispering my name. Your bare arm encircles not my body but a deadly vision of the image of you. 

From the difficult dark, points of light project thought into speech, into terrain of terror, mystery of commonsense.

I am the small scream underneath the bolt of the Sky.

Toasted and battered I await your voluptuous lips, your small cutting teeth, the raw sweet reeling leap into ecstasy  prelude to bathroom anxieties  Memories too hot to touch, that black-red magma which underlines every minute, feeling there is no purpose but to wait for purpose...

Till I resist to reason the irrational symbol of no regret.

History on three feet crawls toward the dungheap, the rubbish pit of all my yesterday's names. The final word does not belong to the Worm. The last word is desolation.

But first, to bound the bone in lemonlbright sunlightA pause...

To gain, under destiny's lampshade, a permanent intensity, dare I hesitate?To cry, what no scream ever whispered, to shrill, to how what no dread bombardment ever shuddered!

Fear is no small thing under the microscope. Fear is the flesh, the gorgeous dress my skeleton wears. 

From 'Scrapiron Blues', his compilation of short stories and poems. 

Rain and Poetry

Poetry is indeed mighty and honourable.  Silent and sweet showers are dropping down from the sky. These drops are cleansing the earth and paving way for the great poetry day tomorrow, Saturday 1^st December. When poetry lovers gather at the museum, when poets grace the stage and spit words into the microphone, the atmosphere will be serene and mood-enhancing. This is exactly what this rain is preparing for.  Rain loves poetry. It respects poetry. In fact, each drop that falls right now is like a poetic word plated deep into the soil only to geminate tomorrow at the Nhabe Museum. “Do not miss out,” the rain whispers. “This one’s for you – absolutely free.” Listen to the rain.  

Confident Male

“I thought long and hard about what I would say on this page. But, in the end, much of it probably would not matter. Often, people use these (and other) web sites as vehicles to overstate their intellectual (and even sexual) prowess. This should not be a proving ground of any kind, but rather a place to meet and greet like-minded individuals. So with that said, I don`t have a picture of myself posted anywhere on this site and don`t plan on posting one. What I have found is that many of the pictures displayed, rarely belong to the individual displaying them.

I make this point not because I have insecurities about my looks. To the contrary, I am a VERY confident male. For the women who have had the opportunity to meet me, it is easy for them to understand that confidence,”  - anonymous. 

Signals of You (Poem)

In my heart you dug yourself a private space

A space by the fire that burns and pumps with every one of my heartbeats
The fire that sends out sizzling signals through arteries and veins
And although our arteries and veins have been severed by man
My antenna still receives strong signals of you

The chains that bonded us together had been broken
But the love I have for you will never be forsaken
Cold water was poured on my feet the day they hauled you away
Threatening your peace and promising you regret
What we had they said was prohibited and banned as taboo
But my antenna still receives strong signals of you

If the fruit we’ve bitten on was forbidden
I still yearn to dig my teeth into it, crunch it and taste its juices
Because plainly, a forbidden fruit is the most succulent and delicious
Tasty on the skin and tasty on the inside
My antenna still receives strong signals of you

Four bars, five bars, six bars of your signal
When they lugged you away from me
Throwing mud on my face and drenching me in a pool of depression
They forgot to cut down my antenna and turn off your satellite relay
Because, my antenna still receives strong signals of you

Blissful lives we both are supposed to live
With you, with me, without you, without me
We both are supposed to live blissful lives
But the network through which you transmit never breaks
Because, you see, my antenna still receives strong signals of you

Space and time has been wedged between us
And on the contrary, we both saw the good of it
You and I, two souls justifying a forced separation
But even space and time fail to quench me down   
Because, my antenna still receives strong signals of you

Now I’m in a boxing ring without gloves, without a gum-shield
A neophyte battling against unwanted emotions
Heavyweight emotions that throw uppercuts and crossbow punches
I bleed not from my skin, nor my face, nor my teeth
I bleed from my heart
Because, my antenna still receives strong signals of you     

The X In My Name

Just the other day, someone asked me what the X in my name stands for. She felt X is a bad mark. She said it represents ‘wrong’ since teachers put an X mark against a wrong answer in students’ scripts. She also said voters at polling stations mark their votes with an X. According to her, the mark signifies that one has just voted for a ‘wrong’ government. Well, I pondered over what she said. Then I said to her, ‘I understand. But that’s wrong, what you said about people voting for a wrong government and the letter X being a bad omen. But I respect your opinion, nonetheless.”  Then I felt obliged to explain to her what the X in my name means. And this is what I said:   

To find the value of X, one needs to open up and voyage through ages and places – an expedition of time and space. And then perhaps they’ll comprehend the mark that this X makes. They’ll realise that this mark doesn’t connote to popular and corporeal implications laid out by earthly mortals. This mark is the crosshairs of a righteous weapon aimed at the filthy and twisted individuals squatting at the top of the pyramid – the wicked and elite whose sole purpose is to dwindle the world population and take over God’s creation.  As they sit at the top of their pyramids and manipulate the world, they don’t see black, they don’t see white. They don’t see Africa, they don’t see Europe. They see the world and humans – things they should deal with. 

And so, this X is on a mission to save the world. And for doing so, this X fits in every society in every nation in every part of the world. This X is for awakening humanity as a whole, not just one race or one group of people, for humanity is facing a common threat. This X therefore, stands for Africa, Asia, Europe, America, etc. In every part of the world, any individual can solve the equation and replace the X with a name befitting and necessary for such a society. So, in other words, this man embraces all. And this man believes that for Africa’s problems to end, for world problems to end, we need to target the source. And in a war against the perpetrators, this man needs the assistance of the world. And to gain the assistance of the world, this man needs to fit in every social order of the world. Thus, this X is a name that doesn’t belong to any particular language, yet it’s a name that has a meaning in a very individual language. The local political platform is just but a granule in a huge basket of grains. It is, therefore, of no concern to me. The crosshairs of my weapon are facing further and upper, at a more dangerous enemy. When the equation is solved, when the value of X is finally found, the world, and indeed Africa in her entirety, will rejoice.       

Radical Change

Sincerely, I think that now is the time to advocate for a radical change. The president, in my view, should be employed. Not just voted. He should be employed on the basis of his credibility as a leader. This means he’ll have to apply and go through a very tight interview to sieve for the best. And then the ministers of various government sectors should be specialists in such areas. For instance, in Botswana, a minister of tourism should have a masters’ degree in tourism, with of course an experience of a certain number of years; the minister of finance should be highly qualified in accounting, economics, business or related fields; the minister of roads, transport and infrastructure should be an engineer, and the rest of the ministries should be led by highly qualified specialists – then, we will have the right people doing the right jobs. What we see happening today is simply nonsensical. What the heck do these guys know about the sectors they are leading? It’s time, I think, to call for a really drastic change. Enough with political rhetoric, empty promises and outright lies!

Life, What Exactly Are You?

Yesterday I sat on my porch and watched the sun as it descended towards its resting place. As it sunk behind silhouettes of rigid trees stencilled against the horizon, I could see the golden glimmer that spread over shrubs and grasses vanishing. Tall shadows faded out. Birds chirped and hurried to the safety of their nests.  Another day had just ended. But here I sat, squatting on a loose brick, chin cradled on palm and eyes pinned on the muddy red horizon – terrible effects of a bad watercolour painter.  

 Old school classic reggae music poured off the windows of my house. The poof-poof of the bass, the off-beat and chopping rhythm, and the deep Burning Spear baritone sunk into my deepest core. The music, especially its lyrics, sparked up vivid images that brought tears to my eyes. “When I travel my journey, yes, I will always remember him.” The music was supposed to soothe me, but instead, it did the opposite.      

I could feel a faint, almost hesitant throbbing somewhere inside my skull. The little headache didn’t seem to be sure it wanted to be there, yet its presence and the discomfort it stirred couldn’t be ignored. But the mild headache wasn’t much of a concern at this point in time. My mind was in a race. Questions shot up like fatal spears but I had no answers. I had no shield against the spears. As tree leafs swayed slightly from the soft breeze, I found myself wondering what these features of existence; trees, stones, birds, animals, air, water, think about life. And death. I know what I think about life.  Life is a wonderful phenomenon, with all its ups and downs. But death, death sucks. They say you live once. True. And you also die once. But the beauty about life is that you experience it, you can write about it, talk about it. Death sucks because unlike life, once you experience it, you can’t talk or write about it. 

In the many years that I lived, I still can’t get used to the idea of death. Death just isn’t fair, especially when the deceased was still so full of life and pregnant with huge ideas that were not only meant to benefit him but his entire community. The passing away of my close friend Rotlhe yesterday left me shattered in a way I cannot explain. News reached me in the morning of yesterday that he perished in a car crush. It wasn’t a long time ago when another friend’s five year daughter lost her life in another car crush. This makes me question our destiny.   

This man Rotlhe was a highly progressive individual. I remember the times I spent with him. In these times we fed from each other as we shared dreams and ideas. We ate from the same plate and drank from the same cup, no matter how little the plate or cup contained. We’d discuss very many issues whilst listening to the sounds of reggae music. As I type this, the music of Burning Spear is spilling off my speakers and in my minds’ eyes; I can see my friend’s head nodding along to the music, his charming smile sprouting on his face.

Now he’s gone, his life abruptly ended. Although it’s still a hard pill for me to swallow right now, I guess each and every single one of us has their own way of departure from this world. And their own time. I pray for my friend, who had in fact grown to be a brother to me, to continue with his beautiful life out there. And I’m sure he will.    

Your Voice - Dredd X

Cloud Nine

I didn’t eat anything that morning. Not even the previous night. I had to starve myself for my own good. I’ve heard stories about people puking all over themselves aboard aircrafts. I didn’t want to vomit inside an airplane. That’d be the worst way to lose face.

And off I went to the airfield, hungry as I was. I didn’t want any chances of missing the flight so I was two hours earlier. But now there was a little problem. I wasn’t familiar with the check-in procedures but I joined the line nonetheless. I remembered one of my favourite comedy characters, Mr Bean. He always found his way out of situations like this. The trick was simple – be silent, just watch and do what everyone else does. I followed that advice. With Mr Bean in my mind, things were quite smooth. I watched as my bag was weighed, thrown on a conveyor belt and disappeared behind scenes.  Then I had to pass through a scanner – like everyone else. I didn’t mind the search and all. But I hated it when the security girl requested for my belt. Unbuckling the belt felt really awkward. What if my trousers fall to my knees? Anyways I passed through without triggering any alarm.    

The airbus (or minibus to be precise) was smaller than I anticipated. Not so cool, really. I wedged onto a seat by the window and looked around. Many seats were empty. It wasn’t crammed like in the buses at the town rank. No one was standing up in the aisle. There were no vendors screaming with bowls of bananas and maize cobs. The atmosphere was different – almost alien. Everyone was silent. Then a voice crackled from a speaker concealed somewhere within the parameters of the plane, breaking the silence in a thousand audible splinters. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Then I fumbled for the seatbelt and followed the instructions. Suddenly the small craft was rolling away, taking me along with it. Nice. It felt like a real bus; well, at least for a while as it sped on the runway. The voice in the speaker came again, alerting me that we were about to take off. I held on tightly to my armrests, bracing myself for anything that would follow shortly. Oxygen was still abundant yet I gulped for more air. I felt my intestines stirring as the craft ascended, pushing down the tarmac below. This is where I was supposed to vomit; I thought and felt really proud of myself for being smart. My head swelled and a wave of nausea swept over me. Then suddenly I had eagle eyes. I could see roofs of every building, getting smaller and smaller. A giant snake of the Thamalakane River glimmered down there. Up and up we went.  Trees became blobs of green. Roads turned into line drawings. Cars were tiny toys that ultimately vanished out of sight. Brown and yellowish shapes patched the landscape like haphazardly thrown pieces of fabric. Though it was a beautiful sight I was seeing, I still wasn’t yet settled. This was a damn risk I’ve taken. It was crazy. How could I put my trust on that man inside the pilot cabin – a man I didn’t even know?

I looked outside in space and there was a mist– a white smoke all around the plane. Something must have been burning, I thought in a trifle panic. But other passengers were calm. There weren’t any fire alarms blurring onboard. I shifted on my seat and held on tight. The mist gave way to yet another vision. Thick masses of white and gray mountains hovered just below me, like giant cotton wool balls. I wanted to reach out and scoop out a handful. It was a sea of cumulonimbus clouds. There were clouds below me and clouds above me. What a romantic sight! If only my girl and I can live in place like this. We’d walk and sleep on clouds every day. On cloud nine. I smiled, my face pressed against the small windowpane. If God was somewhere out there (for this must have been heaven of some sort) I’m sure He saw the glee in my eyes. Gone was the discomfort. I was in dreamland.

The crackling voice in the speaker, again. This time I listened intently as the captain informed us on a few facts. I learnt we were about 9 kilometres above the ground. Well, fine, that might be true. What I didn’t slightly believe was the speed at which we were supposedly cruising. This guy was lying! I know how speed feels like. I’ve jolted my Volkswagen Golf GTI at a breakneck speed of 260km/h. Trees were whooshing past me in a scary blur. Every car ahead of me was suddenly behind and rapidly disappearing in my rear-view mirror. That was real speed. Now this guy tells me we are cruising at 600km/h and he expects me to believe him. Bullshit! Truth is, this thing seemed to be dragging at a snails’ pace and at times it looked stationary.

Before long, I was told to the craft was beginning its descent to Sir Seretse Khama Airport in Gaborone. It was just over an hour since the flight left Maun. This was a journey of almost a thousand kilometres. By road, it stretches for over 10 hours. Then I thought about how unfair this whole game of capitalism is. They keep the airfare insanely high so as to keep people – the class to which I belong – struggling with uncomfortable and sometimes unbearable journeys. This mode of transport was surely for a selected few. The rest had to suffer. Now, instead of being happy that I arrived so quickly, I found myself inwardly complaining. This just wasn’t right; I fumed to no one in particular. Someone left Maun with the 5am bus to the same destination as mine. I left four hours later and arrived in an hour’s time. That someone was still somewhere in the heart and heat of the country, very many kilometres away from arrival. Mankind is really nasty with divisions. First it was the first world, second world and third world divisions. Then within those divisions there are subdivisions as well. And sub-sub divisions. And it goes on and on and on. This earth, my brother. 

What an Invitation!

A few months ago, a friend of mine tossed a book into my hands and said, ‘You are a reader. Read this! I know you’ll like it. You like every book anyway. And tell me the story afterward, Mr Storyteller.”
 I looked at the small book, judged it by its pink cover and the stylish calligraphic font type and thought, ‘This looks girlish, no way am I going to waste my time with superfluous and delusive feminine stories.’ But I, being myself, didn’t say these words out to her. Instead I pocketed the book and promised I will read it. She had no idea that it was going to lie in my shelf for months. It didn’t look ‘hard’ enough for me. Plus, it was too short a read – less than 150 pages. Again, I didn’t quite flow along with the author’s name which just didn’t look authentic to me. What kind of a name is Oriah Mountain Dreamer? And so I ignored it.

Then, last week I took a bus trip to Tonota to a national meeting on developing a culture of reading in our country. Somehow I took this book with me. I think I needed something physically small, something that I can stash in my pocket without creating extra luggage. Of course I didn’t read it on my way there – partly because I was sitting next to a loudmouthed friend who babbled all the way to Francistown, and also because I basically was still not inspired to read this little pink book.

The meeting was only one day. It was a highly fruitful conference attended by Botswana’s giants in the writing and reading fraternity. The night after the meeting, a nasty situation slashed me like an axe-chop that hit without any warning whatsoever. I mean one of those deep, personal conundrums I can’t share with you here. You understand. I couldn’t find my sleep that night in a hotel room. I tossed and turned, pardon the trite. I was in an intense emotional turmoil. I was tearing apart. Blood dripped from every pore of my skin. The TV couldn’t do any help. My friend, whom I told about the situation earlier, called from his room trying to give me some comforting words. He tried, yes, and I highly appreciate. But he sounded like a robot to me. When I finally slept, I thank God I didn’t have any nightmares.

In the morning we took the 500km trip back to base. The bus was almost full when we boarded. This time I couldn’t sit next to my friend, yet it was a time I really needed close company. The bus pulled off. My mind continued with its torturing thoughts, tormenting this little soul of mine.  As I stashed my hands in my pockets in attempt to sit comfortably, I felt the small book in there. I pulled it out. I read the cover again, almost for the first time. ‘The Invitation’ was the title of the book. And just under that, a short stanza from what looked like a poem read ‘It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.’ I saw these words lifting from the cover, one by one, and dancing in their calligraphic font right in front of my eyes. I smiled, in spite of myself. For the first time, I opened the book and read the first page. It was a poem! A poem that was written for me; written for the stranger next to me; written for my situation; written for the world; written for happiness and sadness; for fear and beauty and failure and joy; written for everyone and everything. But the poem was on only one page and a half. The whole book was filled with amazing prose, words based on this poem, weaved in a tense, cohesive, potent and gripping style I had never read before. The writing was deep and poetic, as though written by a seer or prophet of some sort.

Suddenly I wasn’t in the bus. There was no one around me but stars of words as I spun like an astronaut in this writer’s world. Pure meditation! It talked of my joys and pains and everything; my achievements and the lack thereof.  I learnt that in life we face obstacles that seem impenetrable; hindrances that threaten the very fabric of our existence. But despite all these, there’s always a steady push from within our deepest core – a push to survive and do right. We all can get this. And as we voyage through our lives, we get confronted by phenomenons that are interwoven into life itself. But nonetheless, we have to strive to live and beckon for those that impact us positively.

This little pink paperback opened my mind and poured me with floodlights of wisdom. It was nowhere near a chimerical book that I had so irrationally believed it to be. It filled my heart and fired up my hearth. It cured that nasty situation I was in. I greedily consumed it all and by the time I reached my destination, I was reading it again. Now, as I finish reading it for the third time, I can’t help but think of my friend, the friend who gave me this book. Such a beautiful book from a beautiful friend. Beautiful in cover and in content – both the book and the friend. I have a story to tell her. And I will tell it wholeheartedly, with the passion that I know the book has fired up inside of me. I respect this writer, Oriah Mountain Dreamer. Weird name or not, she just joined a list of my favourite non-fiction writers. Let us please turn off our televisions and READ.      

Be Careful of Writers

Look my friend, this guy, your guy, is a poet. With a slick tongue and skilful usage of words he can romanticize and colour up any given situation with a rainbow, and you’ll be awed. No wonder he swept you up so quickly and you became his girl. I’m sure many a times he has paralysed you with a fluid of words and his make-believe emotions. Isn’t it so? Very quixotic, this guy of yours. He writes fiction and tells gripping tales. Fiction means he writes about non-existent characters and happenings that never took place. They are all cooked up inside his head and they are not true. Basically, he tells lies. Someone who tells lies is a liar! And he’s a good one. How on earth do you think he manages to get readers glued to his words on a page? Remember you told me that this guy of yours is flawless. I don’t believe that crap. You said he never hurts you and that the things he say and do make you happy. Wake up, girl! That’s just not real. This guy is fiction himself. He’s a smokescreen, a façade.  Sooner or later, when fatigue catches up with him and he can’t put on a mask anymore, you’ll see for yourself. And don’t say I didn’t warn you. Be careful of poets and creative writers.

Now, really, what kind of advice is this?

Twist within a twist!

I’ve been relaxing with a movie. And Im thinking, agggh, how can a director spoil such a wonderfully crafted and acted movie? Same theme as ‘Buried’ but fast-paced and unpredictable – a couple of aspects that ‘Buried’ lacked. I just finished watching this movie ‘Brake’ and how I wish I had not watched the last five minutes!  The twist was superb, the kind I never saw before, the kind that makes you grip the carpet with the tips of your toes and ultimately heave a sigh of relief. But then, another twist came. A twist within a twist! A sick, awful twist that spoiled what could have otherwise been a perfect thriller. And I hate the director for doing that! Actor Stephen Dorff pulled off an incredibly great performance in this film but the sense and story is lost in those stupid five minutes at the end. I felt like my intelligence was being undermined. 

Fret Not, Pray, Lay Yourself to Rest, Leave the Rest to God, for Thou has Blest (Poem)

Head swirls 

Brain creaks in pain
You twitch and turn, and then you toss
Echoes...
Echoes as their voices reverberate within your inner walls
Voices as sharp as samurai swords
Slice through your flesh
Fragile your walls are
Yet their hands hurl rocks at you
Broken your spirit feels
You perch on stone and cradle your chin on palm
Then you wonder
Aloud, silently
It rains on your face, acid rain
Salty, scalding drops etch your cheeks
Darkness creeps in, you cringe
But when the sun rises again, Angel
So shall your strength; your faith
This, we all know, you and I
Your smile will adorn your face again
And your soul too, yes
Let not their crucifix anchor you down
They’re all wax and before Thy fire
They shall melt
So fret not
Pray
Lay yourself to rest and leave the rest to God
For you Thou has blest

Heart of Gold (Poem)

God, my God, created I in Thy image
And in Thy image, you, He created
Your beauty, my queen, resembles Him
I, your king, trod in Thy light
You and I exalt Thy Name
And rejoice under His showers of blessings
Behold,  let not earthly threats  shake your
Heart of gold
For God, our God, is on our side.

Atomic Love Attack (Poem)

Here I am, again, reminiscing about the past

The past I so want to place behind me
Bury, sixteen feet
But thoughts of you infest my mind
Like a virus
A virus that eats at my flesh and sucks my soul
I’m reduced to a lump of hopelessness
And a bowl of ridicule I’ve become
Wasted
Wasted were the times I spent with you
The pleasures I’ve tasted in you have turned sour and bitter
Like a serpent you had sneaked into my life
Briefly
Yet beautifully
And blinded me with your infatuation
Now like a mist you’ve drifted away
You reaped out my heart and stashed it in your right ribcage
Two hearts, you now have
And here I am, again, reminiscing about the past
Swaying and reeling with a hollow chest
Feeling like a Hiroshima
Suffocating with the repercussions of an atomic love attack…

Effects of Goodbye

A selected group of Batswana poets/writers were tasked to pen a piece on the theme 'Womb'. As one of those writers, I submitted a short poem entitled 'Effects of Goodbye'. It's one of the poems that come from deep within my heart, also reflecting on my personal experiences not as a writer but as a human being. The poem is published at Prairie Schooner.

Click here to read 'Effects of Goodbye at Prairie Schooner, And thanks for reading...

The Road to Somelo

From the end of the battered, weather-grilled tarmac in Samedupe, around 20 kilos from Maun, starts a road that I pray, from the bottom of my heart that one of the top politicians, preferably the president himself, should experience a ride on. The road will shake the contents of his stomach until his pukes. It will shift the brain in his skull and render him unfit for office – that is for sure. This is the road to a small village (or a settlement as some would name it) called Somelo.

The dusty, rutted road is imbedded with hard, sharp stones that punch painfully at the tyres. I feel every grind and bump as though they hit directly on my bare feet. The ditches and holes make me grit my teeth in a surge of sickness. I hear the metal structure of the highly-built Nissan Patrol 4X4 Station Wagon complain under the assault. A hail of gravel hammers the underneath of the vehicle, scattering loose stones in idiot profusion.  I grimace, gripping the back of the front seat for support. Outside, the vegetation is dull and hopeless. Dry shrubs and brittle trees stand on the roadside like corpses, watching every brutal movement on the road like spectators at an illegal, deadly race.

There seem to be no air outside, and that we survive from the blowing aircon. But that’s not the case, of course. At one crazy point, an anthill straddles the road, as though placed there with an evil intent. The Nissan swerves around it and barrows through thick sand. The road stretches on and on, getting worse with every kilometre.  Now and then, an antelope swiftly crosses the road.  After very many kilometres of bumping and shaking,  we pass a stationary and deserted light weight bakkie on the road with flat tyres. The poor machine couldn’t survive the cruel road. I look back at the road behind us. I can’t see the bakkie. A thick cloud of dust trails us. Then I look ahead again and I see the first road sign ever. The board says, ‘Somelo 25Km’. That’s a lie, I say to my companions. I tell them that the true distance, on this road, is 250Km. My head is aching. My body is painful. 

Queen Majesty

There is a sudden change in the atmosphere as you easily gait into my garden, one foot placed gracefully in front of another. You step on the grass carpet, dressed magnificently in my favourite colour, black. The thick, rich and glossy locks of your hair are clasped over your head like a royal crown. Your beautiful and long black skirt cascades down to your ankles, completely concealing them and falling over your insteps. It shimmers in glossy ebony waves as you saunter along like a proud lioness. The loose, free-flowing skirt inevitably takes the form of that voluminous, magnetic body. It waffles like a Japanese kimono in response to the light breeze. The voluptuous bulge of your curves as they sway with every step you take makes my eyeballs pop out. You have the walk of a model in a… What do they call it? Yes, catwalk. Everything about you oozes respectable sensuality. Sunlight kisses your unblemished face and you smile. The contagious smile spills off your face and radiates into the already nectarous air. I feel your smile as it melts the marrow in my bones. I reel with excitement. Here comes Queen Majesty...

New Words

New and unfamiliar words always have a peculiar way of interesting me. English is my second language but whenever I read a book and come across a strange word, I never brush it aside and pass it by. Neither do I just assume the meaning from the context within which the word has been used.  New words spark up a deep curiosity within me.  They conjure varying possibilities in my mind and hence perturb the mind from further focus in the very act of reading. Malcolm X read the dictionary from A to Z and I assume that by so doing, he was preparing himself from the dilemma that unfamiliar words can rouse. I contemplate doing this.

Soldier Boy (Extract)

Neo stepped in. To Kgotla’s eyes, she walked in slow motion. Her elegant body was dressed in a magnificent outfit. She walked towards the bed, glamorous in every way. She did not smile, yet her face rippled with astounding beauty. Like spring rain, tears coursed down her cheeks. Kgotla tried to stand up but the casts would not let him. The doctor sneaked out and disappeared. Neo looked at Kgotla through tear filled eyes and smiled for the first time. He smiled back, like a child at the sight of candy. She leaned over the bed and their lips locked in an explosive bang. They kissed vehemently. Careful not to step on his healing limbs, she climbed on the bed and lay by his side. None of them had spoken a word. Neo pulled the blankets and burrowed underneath. They faced each other, heads pressed on the same pillow, faces nearly touching. Neo opened her mouth to speak. “Shhh...” Kgotla whispered. “Hush, don’t say a word. Don’t even lift that head off the pillow. I love it when your eyes look at me that way. I’d like to wake up like this every morning. So sleepy, your eyes, yet they melt the marrow in my bones.” Neo’s succulent lips twitched in a tiny, almost hesitant smile. For a fleeting moment her teeth sparkled like diamonds and briskly disappeared behind the luscious lips. She snuggled closer to him, the fabric of her dress brushing against his skin. Kgotla shuddered. She carefully pulled him closer and locked her hands around him. In no time, they were both fast asleep, in each other’s comfort. 

This is an extract from my short story, 'Soldier Boy.' It's yet another attempt at a romantic tale that tells of a young man whose life is infested by harsh challenges including unemployment and lack of financial stability. Although he's performed exceptionally well at university, earning himself an outstanding degree, he continues to roam the streets. He questions the value of education and begins to doubt the cliché, Education is the Key. Just when things turn out positively for him, just when he anticipates a better future, just when he thought he found the love of his life, he comes crashing down again - this time harder than he ever did. What is life? What is love?

Soldier Boy is a re-write of what used to be called Tears of a Soldier, and then later changed to The Soldier. It's been rewritten several times and the title Soldier Boy seems to fit well, for now. I hope it sticks.  

The End (Extract)

Quixotic I was, perhaps. I remember this particular night. You were in my arms and me in yours, feeling so snug. Red light glowed in my room, bathing us in a warm, amorous red illumination. Oh, how I despise this colour now. Anyway, there we were, entangled in peace and divine love. I recited you a poem. I know you remember this. It’s strange that when I was with you, I turned into a novice poet. No one else knew about this little poet in me, but you, my love. So you listened to my poem on that night. Rain sluiced languidly over the rooftop of my bungalow, a gentle caress of nature. It slithered down the windowpane as if in praise of our love. You absorbed every word and rhyme from my mouth. Then I saw it - the tear, like a tiny diamond on your eyelash. You cried and that touched my heart like it never did before. I kissed your tears dry. You cried because you felt the love. But sadly, it turned out that my love or poems couldn’t buy you clothes. My love or poems couldn’t pay your bills. They couldn’t take you to the movies or aristocratic restaurants. So, to hell with my love and poems! You decided to leave. 


Extract from my upcoming short story, 'The End.' Unlike 'Black Diamond,' which is an action-packed suspense thriller, 'The End' is a monologue, letter-style type of story. It's heavily emotional and touches on dense issues of a love-affair gone sour, feelings of dislocation, abandonment  and betrayal. It is also laden with political commentary told by a depressingly suicidal voice. 

I just completed this story and starting on another one titled 'Soldier Boy.' Keep watching this space. As a school teacher, a month-long vacation is a writing-vacation for me. I have to use it to the maximum! Peace and love to you...

Family Problems (Adopted)

Two men met at a bus stop and struck up a conversation. One of them kept complaining of family problems. Finally, the other man said: 

"You think you have family problems? Listen to my situation, A few years ago, I met a young widow with a grown-up daughter and we got married. Later my father married my stepdaughter. That made my stepdaughter my stepmother and my father became my stepson. Also, my wife became mother-in-law of her father-in-law. Then the daughter of my wife, my stepmother, had a son. This boy was my half-brother because he was my father's son, but he was also the son of my wife's daughter which made him my wife's grand-son. 

That made me the grand-father of my half-brother. This was nothing until my wife and I had a son. Now the half-sister of my son, my stepmother, is also the grandmother. This makes my father the brother-in-law of my child, whose stepsister is my father's wife, I'm my stepmother's brother-in-law, my wife is her own child's aunt, my son is my father's nephew and I'm my own grandfather!

Shoo, and you think you have family problems!"

Black Diamond

“Perfect. You see, the government and I are both thieves. But I’m a better thief. These guys are kleptomaniacs. Stealing is in their blood. They have numerous operations going on by which they rob the poor - from taxes to school fees. You even pay for the air you breathe. This is what I call a kakistocracy government,” he smiled and crashed the cigarette stub. “You know what that word means?”
            Thabo shook his head.
“It means a government led by the worst citizens. Such is our government.”  

I'm currently working on this story. It's called Black Diamond. I've always had this idea of writing an adventure thriller but couldn't just come up with a plot. Then I remembered an English composition I once wrote in high school. It was called The Hidden Cave. Black Diamond is inspired by that composition , or maybe I should say it's a development of The Hidden Cave. I hope it turns out to be a master piece. 

A Very Good Morning

Shhh.... hush, don’t say a word. Don’t even lift that head off the pillow. I love it when your eyes open and first thing they see is my face. So sleepy, your eyes, yet they melt the marrow in my bones. You twitch your succulent lips in a tiny, almost hesitant smile and I burn inside. For a fleeting moment your teeth sparkle like diamonds and briskly disappear behind those luscious lips. God is indeed Great. You snuggle closer and I feel your skin slide against mine. I shudder...  

A Poem Trapped (Poem)

I wake up with pulsating green rage
Kick the blankets, take my pen and attack my page
Pen pours crimson venom across the white surface
Paper shrinks from acidic bite, leaving tattered and wrinkled space
My blood boils, nerves pump and it itches in every bone
Head pounds and lips burn for the microphone
From my stomach rises scalding bile
I pant and wheeze, though I haven’t walked a mile
Fists slam the hard concrete wall
Like an animal body feels trapped in a kraal
A poem captured and bound inside
Punching and kicking to break free and leap outside...

The Cold Back Then

These days aren’t like our days.  I mean the cold back then was damn biting - stinging right to the bone. I’d walk many kilometres to school, barefooted, limping all the way on frozen feet that I could hardly feel. Sometimes I’d bake a stone on wood fire, wrap a paper around it and clutch to it on my way to school. But the silly stone would be stone cold a few steps of my way. Besides, I couldn’t even hold it properly. I had only two hands and was expected to carry my Tastic Rice plastic school bag, a fire wood, a couple of bones (I hated the bones. They never told us what they did with them and I was grateful they didn’t cook them for us), sometimes empty beverage cans too (recycling, I learnt later. The buggers made money from that yet they didn’t acknowledge us for the free labour). Luckily the food plate could squeeze in between the books in the plastic bag. The plate had to come – or I’d sacrifice the bones and submit to a few lashes. But picture me – a petite and fragile boy with all this heavy load, walking through solid cold, sneezing occasionally, phlegm from my nose trickling over my mouth and all I could do was to blow it off. That was sturdy initiation. And when I tell you, today, that I’m a man, you better believe it.     

Stranger

Stranger: Hey, do I know you? [Blows out a gust of smoke, throws cigarette stub on the ground and crushes it with the sole of his shoe]

Me: I’m not sure, perhaps you do. But I don’t know you.

Stranger: I think I’ve seen you somewhere. [Squints in remembrance, hand occasionally brushing against his cheek].

Me: Perhaps at the poetry shows. Have you been to any?

Stranger: What poetry shows? I never heard of any. Besides, I hate poetry.

[I’m caught up by the boldness of his response]

Me: Why do you hate poetry?

Stranger: [Frowns in concentration] Poetry evokes deep emotions. It can easily make you sad. It forcibly connects you with that which you don’t necessarily want to connect with. [Takes two steps towards me - cigarette stench – I take two steps back.] Poetry is very subjective and so I think it should not be shared with the public. It’s like imposing ones thoughts into our minds. This is pure pollution. Poets are con artists.

Me: You remember that stub?

Stranger: What stub?

Me: See? You’ve forgotten it. But you ground that cigarette stub on the ground – under the pestle of your shoe. When you did so, you had no feelings whatsoever towards that stub. But when you bought it, you craved for a smoke. So you cherished the cigarette. It was your antidote. You walked along, blowing clouds into the air – feeling like an angel while polluting the environment. Your smoke pollutes – not poetry. And...

[Interrupts]

Stranger: Wait a minute. Where are you heading to?    

Me: [Ignores the question] Then the cigarette dwindles into your lungs. You feel contented. No more craving. Without even a thank you, you throw down what is left of it and step on it. You step on it the way you would to a troublesome roach.  Then you forget about it. At least for a little while. You forget that the cigarette is the fuel of your engine. It is that which makes you move. I’m not imposing any thoughts into your mind – I’m telling you truth that you might not know. Now tell me, when someone evokes feelings like this, would you hate them for that? Would you call them con artists?  

Stranger: [Closes his mouth which has been agape and licks his lips] You are a poet, aren’t you?

Me: Maybe a con artist. Now, did you say you know me?

Stranger: No. Go away.

Short Story Day Africa

Today, Wednesday 20^th June is Short Story Day Africa. I wish that on a day like this, Africa and even the entire world can focus their time on reading, writing and sharing short stories. Short stories are truly a powerful means of communication, education and entertainment.  To all writers out there, especially aspiring writers like me, short stories are a powerful way to sharpen one’s writing skills. This I’ve learnt in a few years I’ve been struggling to get myself published. 

Dear Son

Dear son, It’s Fathers’ Day today.  I feel compelled buy virtue of your existence to let my mind ponder about you. I’ve never seen you but I heard you are a boy and gosh, it brought me so much joy. No one else but me knows of your existence. Well, with the exception of your mother, of course. Your mother is such a strong woman. 17 years ago when her stomach swelled from my seed, I ran away. It must have been a one-night-stand but fact is; it brought you into this land. She told me of you and I plainly refused to accept. I told her you are not my child [lightning strike me!]. I spat scalding obscenities to your mother, calling her all filthy names. I was afraid of responsibility. And so I ran away. Shame on me.  But in my heart of hearts, I knew the truth. Your mother is happily married now. And I have no right to disturb her peace. And perhaps your peace too. But my dear son, what goes around truly comes around. There are so many stories I need to tell you. But above all, I wish I could just say to you, ‘I’m Sorry’. You don’t have to accept my apology. And neither do you have to accept me in your life. In fact, I wish you never accept me, so I can suffer further because I do deserve the punishment. After I puked all over your mother and abandoned you, God punished me. I was hit by a minor stroke that left me impotent, that is, unable to father any more children.  I’m sitting in a bar now, watching men celebrate Fathers’ Day, talking about their children and families. But here in this corner, I think about you. And I celebrate you. They see me smile and they think it’s the effects of Black Label. If only they knew! One day, my son, I will make it up to. I don’t know how, but I will, one way or the other, sooner or later. I’m a father. And this day is my day too...

Significance of Day of the African Child

Not many know the symbolism of a day that is being celebrated today, June 16, or day of the African Child. Misinformation, propaganda, half-truths and downright lies have led the youth astray. Opportunist politicians climb on the saddle of the day and manoeuvre it to suit their ill-fated schemes. I had listened with acatalectic disgust, people’s asinine and puerile notions that June 16 is a South African affair – and that we, here in Botswana, should have nothing to do with it. I almost drew my machete. Our nation should know that our people and the people of South Africa are basically one. They should know that prior to our independence in ’66; the Union of South Africa almost consumed this country. And the Union would have been justified for having done so – after all, our colonial administration did little, if anything at all, to develop us. We depended heavily on the Union for virtually everything – food, communication, money, etc. All the British did was to fight for their ‘territory’ (Bechuanaland) not to be absorbed into South Africa. In my opinion, that was a good fight, though not a spirited fight. Imagine how things could have turned had we been physically consumed. There would be no Botswana today. I say physically consumed because, you see, economically, politically and in many other ways, we were a part of South Africa. So the plights of the South African youths in the winter of 1976, just ten years after our independence (?), should touch us more that it should touch any other African country.  So before you look me in the eye to utter hogwash thoughts about days like this, be prepared for a thunderstorm. When we talk critical African history, firm yourself up, lest you regret for ever opening your mouth.        

Sincere Thanks

I forward sincere and humble gratitude to all those who bought copies of ‘The Moon Has Eyes.’ This book was sold out during the recent poetry festival in Maun. I thank you all very much for purchasing the book and, most importantly, for the interest to read my story. I assure you, you will enjoy it. I’m currently reading a book by Stephen King called ‘On Writing.’ So far, even though I’m only 25% into the book, I feel a surge of inspiration gushing down into my system. Then I realise that I still have a long way ahead of me – that, come what may, rain or shine, cold or heat, I will always write. I will write until that time when God decides it’s enough. Even when I depart from this world, the coroner will find ink in my veins and blood on my typewriter keys.

Sneak Preview into Historical June 8th

Ever wondered if it’s really true that without knowledge of one’s past, it won’t be that easy for one to progress successfully into the future? Today I look at a couple of historical political events that took place in Africa, on this very day, June 8^th. And I think it really adds value for one to at least know that which concerns his continent, or country. Knowing what happened in history, I believe, can assist in understanding what happens today because, you see, most of what currently takes place particularly in political spheres, has a somewhat disturbing connection to historical events.  Just two occasions for now:

June 8, 1962. Just the previous day (June 7^th), Algiers University was burned by a secret, terrorist French army organization called Organisation de l'Armee Secrete (OAS). Now on the 8^th, the OAS bombed the Hassi Touareg Oil Field, a significant oil resource on which most of the country’s wealth was dependent. But why such a cruel act? Simple. The terrorist OAS was against the withdrawal of French troops from Algeria. They did not want Algeria to be granted independence.  

June 8, 1977. Leaders of the Commonwealth issued a joint statement that warned Southern African states, particularly South Africa and Rhodesia to immediately drop Apartheid practices or face bloodshed.  

Now imagine how these states reacted at such a commanding and threatening statement. And bloodshed here meant blood of the innocent.

Today I Hate My Guitar!

Somewhere in the dungeon pits of this world, my girl resides. It feels like ages since she’s gone. And so I play this guitar, harder and longer than I ever did before. I strum it as though I don’t care about it anymore. Perhaps I don’t.  Two high strings snapped off but I continue playing vigorously. The loose strings dangle at my feet. My left hand is pinching the chords hard, strings slicing through finger tips. Blood sips. But I don’t care. I don’t give a damn. She used to love this guitar. Whenever it played a tune for her, she’d sit cross-legged in front of me, romantic melodies squeezing tears off the depth of her soul and out through those charming eyes of hers. She wouldn’t utter a word as a farrago of emotions stirred up inside of her. Now she’s gone. And I’m left with this guitar. The question still pops. The big question. Me and the guitar, who did she love most?

The sound from my guitar blasts through my little room, escaping though the windows and probably crashing into my neighbours houses. Today, I know, my neighbours would think I’ve gone mad. They know I’m a guitar man, but heck, they’ve never heard a sound from my house. That’s how reserved I’ve always been with my music. I wouldn’t be surprised if they gather in my front yard. Instead I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them that this guitar is responsible for the loss of my babe. I’d cry out a song of sorrow. They might call it a sad love song, but truth is, it’s a hate song. Today I hate my guitar!      

Winter

Winter. I love it more than any other season. I wish it could get colder than in Antarctica where I heard it has once reached -89 degrees Celsius. Think about that. June has begun and it’s just after 12 midnight, yet I’m only putting on a light t-shirt.  I wonder as to when winter will really begin.  But though I yearn for a biting cold, I think of the homeless out there in the street. I think of those who cringe under culverts, cuddled in thin sacks, dry and frozen hands shielding their faces from frigid, whipping winds. I pray for them. As I drink warm and thick vegetable soup, I think about them. I think about them as I slide into the warmth of my bed. They are there, out there, cast out and condemned by the capitalist system of survival. It’s a life sentence in the most callous prison one can ever enter.   

Enter the Philosophy

Back in the days, I’d sit quietly, tense with concentration as I watched his high speed martial arts moves on those scratchy, buzzing celluloid film prints projected in black and white on a hall wall. The crowd would woo and clap at every stunt and superb blow delivery. I’d listen to every word he said and I knew that beneath this character, beyond all the action, Bruce Lee was a philosopher – a skilful orator and a man of wisdom. Earlier today I posted on Facebook one his greatest quotes, one that inspires me a lot. I thought I should now share with you some of his inspirational thoughts. Here we go:

“Be formless... shapeless, like water. Now you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You pour water into a bottle; it becomes the bottle. You put water into a teapot; it becomes the teapot. Now water can flow, or creep or drip or crash! Be water, my friend...” Bruce Lee.  

“Real living is living for others,” Bruce Lee.  

“Notice that the stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo or willow survives by bending with the wind,” Bruce Lee.  

“Knowledge will give you power, but character respect,” Bruce Lee.   

“Love is like a friendship caught on fire. In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. As love grows older, our hearts mature and our love becomes as coals, deep-burning and unquenchable,” Bruce Lee.

“If you always put limit on everything you do, physical or anything else. It will spread into your work and into your life. There are no limits. There are only plateaus, and you must not stay there, you must go beyond them,” Bruce Lee.   

“I fear not the man who has practiced 10,000 kicks once, but I fear the man who has practiced one kick 10,000 times,” Bruce Lee.   

“Ever since I was a child I have had this instinctive urge for expansion and growth. To me, the function and duty of a quality human being is the sincere and honest development of one's potential,” Bruce Lee.   

“Always be yourself, express yourself, have faith in yourself, do not go out and look for a successful personality and duplicate it,” Bruce Lee.   

“A wise man can learn more from a foolish question than a fool can learn from a wise answer,” Bruce Lee.   

“A goal is not always meant to be reached, it often serves simply as something to aim at,” Bruce Lee.