Rain Lovers

Happenstance it certainly cannot be that we meet again in the rain. Not only do we always meet when it rains. We meet in the rain, all the time. This rain, today’s rain, summoned our ever venerated union – a union of our arch-personalities. And so here we stand, amid a fusillade of frigid waters from high up above. A trillion drops wash over us. Drenched we are. Our bodies shudder from the cold it endures, yet inside of us, a glowing warmth emanates. The waters cannot drown us because we are no bêtes noires of this rain. The gurgling streams are but pure ululation – a celebration of you and I, of us. What else could they limn? Surely this rain loves you. It loves me too. Otherwise how could it be so effusive in its praise of our meagre presence? I look into your eyes and I see not the rain but that which pulled you to this place. That’s a much cherished thing for it also brought me here. And we love it here in our sacred quasi-heaven.  Could this rain be a cryptogram of some sort? What is it betokening? When anyone asks, let’s tell them we’ve been betrothed in the rain. Now, come close, my rain love and let’s dance in the rain. 

Letters from the Dead

The deserted lone shack stands forlornly amid a dense jungle of old, dry and gnarled mophane trees.  A thick, almost physical silence hangs in the air. High shrieks of sparrows throw an occasional ostinato of dissonant notes across the air. A trifle shudder creeps through my flesh.  Suddenly the environment feels and looks spooky.  The wooden shack and the gloomy trees are all weather-beaten, like relics from an old time in history. It’s been many, many years since I’ve last come here. It doesn’t look like my place anymore. It doesn’t look like what used to be my resort.

I step towards the structure, my boots snapping brittle twigs.  I jump at the somewhat amplified sound of keys jingling as I scoop them from my pocket.  They echo like graveyard chimes. Almost cautiously, I turn the key, hearing the rusted mechanism unlatching. The door squeals open. A network of cobwebs criss-crosses the interior of the shack, glimmering from the dingy light that squeezes in through the tiny window at the back. A spine-chilling chorus of squeaking sounds is followed quickly by a flutter of wings flapping. I duck as a swarm of bats scurry over my head and out through the door into the woods.  My heart races. The back of my hand wipes perspiration off my brow. Steady yourself, man! A voice whips through my mind. The hell are you afraid of? This is your house.

I walk through the cobwebs into my house, wooden floor creaking. There’s a smell of mildew and mould and bat droppings. I look around. The walls are papered with copies of poems and songs I wrote years ago, on which many generations of flies have interpolated new notes. My first acoustic guitar still hangs at the corner, right where I had left it, but now caged in spider webs, strings dangling. The guitar is solemn. I walk towards the desk and around it to the rocking chair I had once upon a time cherished. Slowly and cautiously I wedge myself into the chair, suspecting it might break under my weight. It doesn’t. And I’m glad. The notepads and the pencils are still there on the desk – a sign that no one had ever stepped in here since my last visit; that no one had tampered with my beautiful writing resort. How come they didn’t give it away after my burial? They gave away everything. Oh yes, I remember. It’s because of the will. I stated it in my will. I open one of the notepads. The once clean-white papers have turned rusty brown. I pick the pencil and start inditing verses. Letters from the dead.  Will they ever believe?  The living. Will they ever believe my story?

Extract from my short story ‘Letters from the Dead’.

A Bibliophile in My Class!

It’s 0845 and I’m moving around in a senior class of high school learners, checking on their individual work.  It’s an art lesson. And I’m an art teacher. All are engrossed, pencils sketching on paper, paint brushes pouring hues on canvasses, fingers weaving small basket bases. Then I spot a boy sitting at the far edge of the classroom, tie askew and eyes cast downwards. I’m about to ask him to fix his tie but I notice that the paper on his desk is clean white, not a pencil mark on it. The pencil is lying neglected on the paper. Certainly the boy is not working. But he is concentrating on something as his eyes are cast downwards on his lap. I can tell by the look on his face that the boy is far, far off. Could he be texting on a cell-phone or playing cell-phone games? Maybe Facebooking! That would be like a daredevil challenge. But his hands are still and there isn’t much fascination that one would expect to see on the face of a juvenile delighted by the thrills of a digital game.

“Hey you! Young boy!” I shout across the room. The boy’s head jerks up and he looks at me with eyes flashing with panic. “What’s there under your table on your lap?” I ask, taking brisk steps towards him, lest he tries to hide that thing which has kept him from working.

‘It’s nothing, Sir.” He says, eyebrows rising. Lies, lies, lies.

Silly answer, I think, though I don’t say it out loud. Students don’t ever seem to learn that we teachers almost always know how they are going to answer to posed questions.

“What do you mean by ‘nothing’?” I ask.  I’m hoping the frown that I’m pulling on my face is showing. At home I’ve tried practicing frown-pulling in front of the mirror but the effect wasn’t very impressive. I’ve seen men who can pull a fear inducing frown that makes the flesh between their brows suddenly look like folds on an elephant skin. But I know that mine is way too mild, yet I pull it nonetheless. Judging by the boy’s nonchalance, I can tell my frown doesn’t have much effect. I’m now at his desk and my hand reaches under the table. Instead of a cell-phone, what comes out is a novel. I look at the cover. Sidney Sheldon. The Doomsday Conspiracy.  I look at the boy’s face.

“I’m sorry Sir,” he says. “I really have to finish this book. If I don’t finish it, I won’t be able to do anything else.”

“What do you mean you won’t be able to do anything else?” But somehow I know the answer. I know what the boy means. And not only do I know, I understand.

“You won’t understand, Sir. I can’t put this book down.” He sounds very honest and I’m touched. I’m touched by I try hard not to show it. I look at the book again and remember that I too became a bibliophile at the boy’s age. At his stage in life, I had consumed almost the entire school library. I look at the book again and I shake my head. I feel sorry for him because he is reading a very addictive author. I contemplate confiscating the book. I look at the boy, very worried for him.

“Fix your tie,” I say to him. 

COMING SOON

JOSIE - A NOVEL BY LEGODILE SEGANABENG

On February 14^th, Josephine carried a bouquet of flowers to Alfred’s home, hoping to resuscitate the love they once had. They had not spoken in a long time. When she arrived, Alfred had just finished taking a bath. He smelled of aftershave. 

“What do you want?” he barked. He was standing by the door and didn’t invite her into the house. “You shouldn’t just drop in unannounced!”  

“I brought you some flowers,” she said, standing on the porch. She thrust the bouquet of flowers into his hands. Alfred slammed them to the floor between them, scattering individual flowers in all directions. The flowers swayed like little pendulums from the forceful throw, their brilliant red petals contrasted with the white tiles of the floor. She looked at him, teary eyed and filled with contempt.  

“What the fuck are these? Do these look like roses to you?” he quipped. “These are damn fake! You can’t even tell the difference between genuine and counterfeit. You bought these moulded plastics from the Chinese outlets, didn’t you?” She was shocked and did not respond.  

Josie remained rooted to the spot like a pylon. Her hands were shaking – perhaps from anger, perhaps from shame, maybe from fear, she couldn’t tell which. Her face seemed devoid of emotion, possibly in an attempt to act strong, but a closer look into her eyes revealed she was a woman about to break down. 

“These are tomb flowers,” Alfred continued, his bloodshot eyes bearing down on her. “I know that’s all you can afford with your National Service stipend. But these, young lady, are flowers for the dead!”

“

Please don’t say that. You’re hurting me,” she spoke in a weak, vulnerable voice. Tears spilled from her eyes. He shook his head and stormed into the house, banging the door so hard that the air it vacuumed outside ruffled the plastic flowers. For a long time she stood there, staring blankly at the closed door...

(an extract)

 

 

Never try to separate a mother from her baby.

My new novel, Josie, coming out soon. By Black Crake Books, Botswana.

February 2014

My album Poetic Meditation will be out in stores in a week or two. Will keep you posted and all the information will be uploaded here in this blog.

My apologies for the long silence.

Mother's Cake

Come here, my daughter. Sit down and listen to me carefully. Today it’s Mother’s Day. Did you know that? Okay that’s fine. So now that you know, aren’t you gonna wish Mommy a happy one? Thanks, love. It sounds so sweet coming from your mouth and makes me feel proud to be your mother. You know that I love you, don’t you? Great. And you know your father loves you too. Why do you shake your head? Say that again louder, angel, I didn’t hear it. You’re not sure your father loves you? Come sit on Mommy’s lap now. It’s okay, come, come. Ahh, look at that little smile! Sit on me and hug me tight. Ooh, so heavy now – ten is such a heavy number. Now listen to Mommy. Daddy isn’t always around because Daddy is a very busy man. But that doesn’t mean Daddy doesn’t love you. Do you understand, my Love? Good. Daddy is a very loving father and he loves you as much as I do. When he comes back next week, look him in the eye and ask him, ‘Daddy, do you love me?’ He will tell it all to you.  I’m always here with you. I’ve always been with you even before you were born. That is why I’m your mother.  And let me tell you something very important about Daddy. Daddy has always been with you before you were conceived. That is, he’s been with you before you became a part of me. Worry not, you’ll understand, one day. Look how grown up you are now.  Remember yesterday you said to me that teacher taught you how to bake?  Wonderful. Now, let’s get into the kitchen. You will bake Mommy a Happy Mother’s Day cake.