Biblioklept

I remember this guy. A friend of mine. He was a biblioklept.  This means ‘one who steals books.’ That was back in high school in Palapye. He was my classmate. Some 14 years ago. He stole a book in the library every week. Novels. Very long novels yet he couldn’t even read a ‘pacesetter’ or his own essays. He was one lazy fellow. I read those books and related the stories to him. Not by choice but under ‘gunpoint.’ He’d laugh and kick as he listened to the stories, especially the Sidney Sheldon’s.

I never saw him sneak out with the books from the library. I don’t even know how he passed through those field-interruption alarm gates without being detected. Surely he couldn’t have had the time to strip the hidden sensors from the book. Those things are tightly concealed.  After some time, and though I enjoyed reading them, I complained to him, threatening to spill the beans. Then he shifted to the local bookstore. There, he took two books a week! I couldn’t call it stealing anymore. This guy was practically taking. He called the bookstore a ‘Boers’ shop’ though I never saw such kind in there. Perhaps he knew the owners. Anyways, my collection of books grew into a mountain. I had to devour them as quickly as I could, lest the police came for them. But no police ever came. Never. This guy was a social engineer – an expect in the art of thievery. I never saw him again after high school.  

Last month I was in a bookshop admiring a book I couldn’t afford. I thought of him and a wave of shame swept over me. The very thought embarrassed me. I put the book down and felt the cameras zooming in on me. Then I came back home. This guy was still playing in my mind, like a recurrent film. I wondered where he is. What he could be doing in life. Was he still a biblioklept? Or was he living a posh life somewhere?

Then I took out my trunk of books and started counting those books I collected from him. I still have most of them, though quite a number were lent out and disappeared for good. Fifty three novels – hard covers and paperbacks! I picked out my favourites and started reading them again. In my mind, I was reading for him. I really wish I could see him again. Not that I want him to steal books for me. I want to read him my own stories this time. I’m sure he’d like them. He’d always said I should write novels and I told him that one day I would. Now that I’m published writer, I know he’ll be very proud of me. And, most importantly, he’ll know that stealing books isn’t cool at all, especially when your friend is a writer. Writers, I’d make him understand, survive on the sale of their books. You steal one book you’ve stolen a great deal of money from the already struggling writer. 

I Got My Things and Left

‘I got my things and left.’ That’s the first line that opens his novel, House of Hunger.  This, I tell you, threw me back in heaves of laughter.  So simple yet its punch sent me reeling from its power. What follows is a powerfully written prose, vivid and staggering with a slight tinge of humour. I’m reading this book for the second time! Dambuzdo Marechera is such a powerful storyteller. This Zimbabwean writer and poet still remains one of my main inspirations. I really find novels therapeutic and somewhat meditative. Whoever still believes that novels are not worth reading should think again – long and hard.

Marked (Poem)

They say they want to sever my tongue
Fling a rope around my neck and let me hang
Or maybe like Lumumba they’ll dissolve me in acid
But their threats I don’t take as I remain placid
To the gallows they want to send me
For in their evil hearts they believe I’m too free
They label me a scoundrel whose mind is unfit
And that on my grave they will spit
My writings they condemn as insanity posing as poetry
In the world they say I don’t belong, let alone in the cemetery
They say my thoughts and utterances are poison to the masses
And so they scatter all my classes
Like vampires my blood they yearn to spill
As they subterfuge as messengers doing God’ will
But on their faces I see the mark of the beast
And on my soul and those of my people they want to feast

The Moon Has Eyes/Poetic Meditations on sale during Poetry Festival

The Maun International Poetry Festival 2012 is back in full force! The new dates are May 25^th and 26^th 2012. With an entrance ticket costing only P200, the poetry lover is guaranteed a treat from Africa’s crème de la crème of poetry. Poets and performers from Botswana, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Burundi, Democratic Republic of Congo and other African countries.

My book, The Moon Has Eyes and Other Stories from Pentagon Publishers will be available for sale during the festival. Also available will be my long awaited poetry album Poetic Meditations from Wired Productions. More details on these products to follow soon.

Earth's Angel (1-5)

Earth’s Angel (Poem 1)

A gentle breeze whizzes by
Somewhat cold as it drifts to the sky
Yet warm in a little peculiar way
A soft whirlwind twirling up
Up and up and up it goes
Entangled within is a mosaic of words
Concealed amid an array of dry leaves
Fluttering like butterflies
Flip, flip goes their little delicate wings
Words spiral out
Displaying a chorus that echoes
And bangs against all four horizon
“I’ve come for my angel
And so I go with her
For angels don’t belong in earth”

Earth’s Angel (Poem 2)

Syrupy fragrance of your soul lingers in the air
thick and tangible with eminences so rare
opaque clouds dissipate in honour of your arrival
like enemies scattering off, dashing for survival
a dazzling smile adorns your little, unblemished face
and here you are, embraced in eternal grace
majestic , royal, splendid in all ways
as heavens open up, the earth will miss you – always
but in mighty hands, our angel, you sit
and us, mere flesh and bone, need not worry a bit
rivers of our tears will soon turn to paroxysms of joy
for we know that in that holy place, our angel, is where you most enjoy

Earth’s Angel (Poem 3)

Ripples from River Thamalakane shine under the glorious sun
Glancing up and another euphoric game has begun
With the heavenly skies the waters chat
A tete-a-tete, a this and that
Waters stick up the finger and point to the sky
Heavens grin and whisper ‘don’t you dare try’
On behalf of the earth the waters cry
The river mourns and asks, ‘but why?’
Minus our angel all rivers will run dry
Heavens bellow in a grand command
Ordering the rivers of the earth to withstand
To withstand all that comes from above
For your angel has turned into a mystic dove
Flew away to a land of eternal peace
So I tell you, don’t cry, please

Yaone – Earth’s Angel (Poem 4)

Saccharine is the atmosphere so reminiscent of a dream
Against the black sky the moon and the stars they gleam
Gleaming in the dark yet the sun continues to shine
Casting illuminations of hope even when all doesn’t seem fine
Like spectators in a soccer game the heavens blow trumpets
And down here we dance to the songs of crickets
Rains fall to wash away our sorrow
And indeed there shall be a better tomorrow
Our pains, our tears, only God will soothe  
Surely today we now know the truth
We rejoice for you were taken in your utmost purity
To a home where you dwell in omnipotent security   

Earth’s Angel (Poem 5)

Your little footprints leave marks on the clouds
As you run jubilantly about and around
Springing up and down in a jumping castle
A jumping castle in a holy castle of eternal peace and joy
The sound of your laughter reverberates in your vicinity
Like the giggle of tiny golden bell
You spread your wings wide
Playfully hovering in the air
Teasing butterflies that festoon your presence
Wow, how beautiful and contented you look
Who’d ever guessed that in this place is where you belong
Send us your photos, our angel
For we yearn to steal a glimpse of that glorious place
A place where you wine and dine  in sheer saintliness
Your soul now lives eternally
For surely God led your way