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.