Thursday, 27 June 2013

MEMOIRS OF A CHURCH GIRL


I remember Sunday mornings
Grandma coming up the stairs singing church songs
of how much she loves Jesus Christ.
I never understood why she had to get up so early
make so much noise in the house,
doing things she could have done when she got back from church.
Leaving church
then had to rush home, cook the chicken already seasoned from the night before.
Getting shouted at to watch the pot while it simmer,
then rushing to get the door for aunts and uncles who would come for dinner.
There was always noisy little cousins running around
Drunk uncles drinking rum in the living room,
even though it was only 4 o’clock in the afternoon.

I remember my first Sunday without Christ. No need to get up early
put on Sundays best.
Comb my hair properly and wear a nice pretty dress,
that I always use to press
the night before
and hang it up by the door.

I had considered myself enlightened,
from the generations of lies presented to me as facts.
Carefully built walls, around imprisoned souls of my mother
before me,
and my grandmother
before her.
But life had shattered.
The truths of my existence were now falsified.
Searching wherein for other truths, trying to discern the lies.
For I had rejected the Bible as truth,
but still looked to the omnipresent to explain my roots.

Since the very moment of consciousness
humankind have been searching for where we come from,
desperately trying to find somewhere to belong.
Have looked at the stars and tried to make sense of what we saw.

Then Marx came along and declared
religion to be like opium.
Not the disease, but merely a symptom.
An expression of the material realities of the economically oppressed
used to make the exploited poor feel better about their distress.
They hang salvation in your face, 
make you sing to the heavens
“free at last”
not knowing redemption comes at a cost.

Like drug dealers dangle
crack to a mother,
so the authority offer Jesus Christ on a platter.
So long gone are the days of Sunday best
You can tell God this
Sunday is my day of rest.



Tuesday, 25 June 2013

WOMAN

Here I stand
searching in the eyes of handsome strangers
for acceptance.
Hoping their presence
would mask the absence
of a life without balance.
Believing that they would look pass my faults
pierce though the outer bodily shell and penetrate right to the heart.
Love me
intrinsically
for me.
Strangers
who want not nor know not that:
love is eternal
Strangers
who cared not for how fragile I was.
Whose hungry eyes had grown accustomed to readily
seeing me as a feast.
Always to be known as a piece of meat
to be groped and plucked
by dirty, unwashed hands.
Made to sit on slimy plates
As he 
sunk in cutting deep.
Each cut damaging
the very fibers of my soul;
shattering pieces of what was once whole.
Baked and boiled and made to sit and simmer
consuming the                                                                        
heat
the
heat 
of his compressing body
sweating a lifetime of insecurities,
from his pores into my skin
onto my bare breast.
Mingled with tears
that glided down my face
as he entered my flesh,
without rhyme or reason.
Grunted moans
blocked my silent cries.
His ecstasy
my pain.
I- I love you”, a whispered lie
from between sharp teeths
sinking, biting into my neck.
Drawing not blood
but pieces of my girlhood.
Already stolen and ravaged by boyfriends
who came, before.
Eager for their attention
needing their affection
I relished in being called their girl.
And the sex was just a part of it
as insignificant
constant
as a kiss on the lips.
Not because I loved them
but because I wanted to be loved by them.
And the physical deed
was just a way to receive it.

Till one day I said no more
I am not just a wet hole to plant your future seeds
and humbly be subjugated to fulfilling your feeble needs.
I am, Woman
I am, Woman
Ndi Mukazi
Tuli Bakazi
I am, Woman
A paradox of truth
borne out a lifetime of lies.



METROPOLITAN



We

touch

shoulder’s

bumping

timidly
on crowded platforms
and packed subway carts.
In day to day
travels
going the distance
but never quite connecting
like perpendicular lines
aligned, but separate.
Never quite looking at each other
yes we look at the shoes
the boobs
of the woman sitting across the carriage.
But never really seeing
the smiles behind the frowns.
Never quite hearing
the laughter behind the groans,
the tears behind the angry glares.
A polite smile
expressions fixed
ahead in identical mask
of expressive nothingness.
We dare a few
“excuse me”
And                                                     (polite)
                        “thank you”
Never daring to look pass the outer surface
blemished
embellishments

An accidental touch,
hands
reaching
reacting,
in attempt to stop
the jostle of an uncontrollable jerking machine.
Forcing strangers together
in random
clusters of chaotic commuters.
As if we could reach through
underneath gloved fingers
underneath the metaphysical flesh
to the metaphorical soul.

Living in a population of seven million
makes it kinda easy
to overlook the random strangers we see daily.
Thinking that if we ignore the pain
reflecting in our eyes,
we can somehow suppress their silent cries.
But by doing nothing, we’ve done something.

In a universe governed by cause and effect
The consequence of each action
Or lack there of
Effected by and effect a
billion outcome

Each
entwined in a

cosmological

Entanglement

of

fate.




Wednesday, 18 April 2012

Poetry video filmed in Milan

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p_nqeN4f7h4&feature=youtu.be

Friday, 3 February 2012

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YWyI77Yh1Gg&feature=youtu.be