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Showing posts from 2018

Scars of War - The Juneck Livi Story (I was only 5 years old)

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South Africa was caught in a civil war – the mob petrol bombed our home.  Machete armed men fighting for justice and peace. Aflamed torches seeking change.  Our home represented too many crossover elements. Too much education gained from the white man.  Teachers influenced by white education. I was five years old with no idea of the storm that raged in the hearts of my people who saw us as the enemy. The faction fighting and brandishing arms were displays of undisguised abhorrence that ignited and flared into a towering inferno.  I was the innocent victim and those who fought to rid their town of “traitors” melted my bones, my dreams.... my skin. My home.   but then again, there are no victors in war. And men give their lives for freedom.  In their distaste of all that was white they hastily took mine. A black 5 year old boy.   The scars were deep and disabilities hard to behold.  Skin grafting sessions were my second home throughout high school.  When my classmates refused t

Oranges and Lemons

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My ears pricked as the shrill pierced my 2 year old innocence. "You're a chop off the old block"! Carina Reynecke was the master of wrangling. Her husband Ferdinand - a rooibos tea grower - was too princely. “Come Brown” he gently prompted, a reminder of how much he adored my eyes. I walked beside him along the Cypress lane as he relived past moments – The demon slugs hung about in villainous fervour. Mr "Old Brown Sherry" Reynecke had pissed and pooped his pants again; mumbling into his alcohol infused puke. 20 year old Ferdinand slung his father before the onlookers then footslogged. The old man’s expletives echoed through the cypress trees and raised its aggression to  beat the ground, where the armadillo sat in silence Ferdi doubled over at the torturous memory.Shame glazed his hot skin. Even now, 10 years later his tears are like freshly squeezed lemon; Fleshy splayed bits like Jackson Pollock’s No 5 -a gradient artistic creation articu

Christine

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Her silent whimper went unheard; tongs pierced translucent skin and like a vengeful act imbedded fragile bones, Steel wrenched an arm  from its shoulder. Her mother's silence hurt more than this obliteration -  more than the inch by inch rip of leg  from hip.... blinded eyes screaming in shock. “Mommy please!” – Her heart pounding strong; Her soul unbreakable, “Stop! Mommy please”, she sobbed “Please......please ”! Isabella stared aimlessly - as if her very soul had been plucked from the earth. Tiny fingers curled tightly  around it's life support the cord froze in places it touched. Life lost its grip. But her memory stubbornly held on.  She tried one more time as her voice trailed off - "Mommy".........  Terminated yet present.   With a thrust and twist of his curette "The Chief" breaks her spine and crushes her skull; His scissors snip, snap  then scrape her from her safe haven - her incubator; warm flesh sucked

To Die for a Queen

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Image by Mohammed Metri The sun stretched lethargically then ricocheted off the red streaks of her hair and mirrored itself in the green pools of her eyes. King Duncan McAlpine gazed infinitely at her soft mouth.  Their eyes spoke of an unquenchable fire. Soul to soul. Their passions narrated intent and dangerous games - a courtship of swans. The residents of the Isle of Rhe were restless, hankering after their bone for the day. A King who was found guilty of the abduction and murder of the French Queen Gabrielle Delon was indeed the type of parade that would bring hundreds to the town square.  Their voices a welter of discordant sounds. "Murder”? shouted the village baker, his pound of belly glaring beneath the flour coated beige apron. His voice straining above the din, "Blah blah blah. No such thing. The King is a decent fella. This is the work of his one-eyed monster of a step-brother,  it is Lord Blanchard’s doing I tell ya". The crowd roared with laughter

Cedric Cobham - The Downs Freak

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   "Rebecca the child will be a freak.  Give it up or do away with it.  It's not even human yet. I never wanted a child, I told you to take precautions so that we would never end in this kind of mess.  Honey, you know I love you.......but I can't do this".  I can't have a "Downs Baby”.  Think about it, he will be made fun of and bullied.  How will he cope? It will drive you mad"!  He seemed to have the future all worked out.   5 Years of love had ended as if it had no value........and perhaps it didn't.    "It not even human yet".  Tears rushed to her soul and spilled onto nervous hands trying to convince her to end the life she carried.  Guitar hands.  Her  baby was no freak.  Nothing was going to change her mind about him.  They would find their way back home.  He was all human.   They connected in the most incredible ways.  She felt him. He was her baby.  He felt, He spoke. He sensed and knew.  Ah yes, the world and science would d

The Human Condition

Humans are unforgiving, ungracious to the one who falls, merciless even when he rises  The same human will cast a casual glance at teacher's whose lives deny; at Politicians who wave big dreams; Preachers who preach lies and sport fraudulent hashtags, fake healings and scams. The human indulges scandal that divides churches and corporations; The Human advocates gossip that tears families apart; persecutes the smoker, the cannabis grower but drinks till drunk; raps nonsensicals in his stupor; The same stones the adulterer but eats till stuffed and rotund a Lady Chatterley's lover, or is it blubber - take your pick. Deception jails the swindler  but buys Mercs and Bentleys from the widows fund. Pride refuses the street child  but from the pulpit pleads for his ministries - like a cunning skunk. Oh ye hypocrites Brood of vipers Soothsayers and cheaters When will your ay and nay be as it should. Pluck out your eye Cutoff your limbs Snip your tongues Don sackclot

5 Thousand Rand

Am I the consequence of poverty or perhaps a prank gone too far? A plaything to appease a sick mind; 5 thousand rand for a mother's blossoming burden, where drugs speak louder than love. I am locked away banished to hell. Branded and burn't then led to a fold in the hills, like roaches in a darkened hole, Alone Days months maybe years? acid to my face has sealed my fate. That's how they do it - how they hold us here I no longer fight, and my attempts at flight become a whimsical notion Oh how I miss the golden shores of the Cape; the lonely windy hills of Macassar. What language is that I hear - Where am I, Uganda, Bangladesh, Pakistan? I live in a cage, I breathe air and see the sky only at night. I am lost Gone sold I am the dead breathing forgotten Unidentified - untraceable Perhaps hope will someday deliver me from this hell of a denatured face displayed behind a glass cage. A high priced collectors item. Laugh you foolhardy pharisees.

I Am A Woman

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not bound by chasms, racism, fascism I am the stream trickling from the peyote cactus in the dry dead of the Sahara, The sand storm that sanitizes every stained spot in its wake. I rise from the South, East, North and West. Under the camels hump I am shadowed from the sweltering sun at noon and clothed for the damp dead of night. I shake the dust from burdens dragged through the evening heat. The hiss of the desert monitor stills not my focus. Like the hooves of a rhim gaselle are my feet - sure yet soft. Caves and burrows shield my dignity in drought. and the waking croc smiles at my courage as the rains wash away my dried tears. I am a Woman I stand tall and fall, My exploits are as the twist in every tornado and when morning comes I rise to meet the scorpion dead on. I rise - from the desert sun - from the dry savanna scapes I am the wisdom of the rock hyrax that moves with my sisters while we forage for the hungry world around us. When t

The Oath - "Your child is My Child"

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Thula was 6 years old but already mother and sister to her 2 siblings, 3 year old twins, Paco and Ponine.  Boys were hard work but she tried her best since their mother died of aids 6 months ago - their father worked the mines far away.  That's all she knew.  Adults had a way of telling children nothing.  The village of Mbizana had many women and all pitched in to help raise the 3 children. Thula however was their big sister and mother. That's just how it was. The 3 were always hungry.  Thula often wondered why mines didn't pay her father a wage because no money was ever sent home. Neither did her father return after her mother's death. They survived on the cabbage and carrots that Mr Abujan dropped off each Friday. The twins were malnourished and often cried in their sleep. The hut creaked and the holes were illuminated in the moonlight that hovered overhead. The African plains  - the big 5 and safaris that brought giggles to children were a far cry from Thula'

Passions Promise

He who defies fear, awakens love. Common sense and fear moaned its objection. But it was no challenge for the brilliant light that shone from the charcoal eyes laughing up at him. Blake's heart creaked, its hinges rusty and misused. Her laughter drew him in and caused his soul to dance like an avalanche. Sounds of thunder in his ears.  His fingers toyed the softness of her cheek as he bent to kiss her cleopatra styled hair. Its that look he found remarkably attractive about her. His own little Cleopatra.  He couldnt understand how he had not noticed her   much sooner.  She appeared in his life as if sent.  He needed this.  She wrapped her arms around him and held him close. The moon sketched their shadowy silhouette like silks that fluttered and floated upon a cloud of long awaited fulfilment. Their lips clung in whispered promises of sundrenched storms. This time Blake dared to embrace this promise; this laughter, this passion, Love. Francesca Hunter felt his heart

When Love Finds You

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He was physically and emotionally drained. The long illustrious walk had somehow enveloped him in its air of evergreen mystery.  He had forgotten the magic of the Drakenberg mountains.  He was however filled with anticipation and maybe if he was to admit, some excitement. But the history of disappointment and unrequited love cautioned him. He shook the anxiety that teased from the lapels of his memory.  An Insecurity born from the constant want for a love that seemed to reject him;  a craving that haunted him and had him tossing in his sleep. Shadows of past ghosts and accusation.  Knots tied by arrangement - if only canyons could speak. The fresh breeze cooled his flushed face. Squirrels scurried and the soft hush of the canyons wings carried curses long forgotten.  Marine drive did little to assuage his wariness but the future called to him like a young heart. His eyes were fixed ahead as he neared the end of the stretch. Cascading Hair over slim shoulders, talle

The Cursed Almond Hedge

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"I see that every white man is an enemy to the black, and every black man an enemy to the white, they do not love each other and never will." King Dingane to Richard Hulley, February 1838 Can it be that when Van Riebeeck erected the Almond Hedge and starved Autshumato and his people, that like Cain and Abel, their blood boils inside the veins of the generations; the cursed hedge that remains firmly rooted in the heart of a tainted people. The Verwoerd stamp. On 27 February 2006 the body of 11-year-old Dane Darries was found stabbed 14 times in the toilet of his primary school in Cape Town. 2012 Marikana Massacre was the greatest political atrocity next to the Sharpville Massacre. In October 2016 Lekita Moore had been savaged. She was stabbed 98 times.  Her nipples and genitals had been cut off, a bottle was shoved up her vagina and her face was badly slashed. She had been stabbed several times in her throat and stomach.  Her mutilated body was found the next day.

TRUMPED

A swelled pinhead and colonial offshoot declares your home is a shithole; to remain where you are. you look around and see the crap - raped beauty. Molested potential. Stolen riches and resources.  Overwhelming chaos. Pee without pots No water to wash away the stench of ammonia Lopsided shacks - The drop no longer long; a hole in the ground where flies meet. Bread without butter Riverbeds dumpsites for termites. Homes heavily laden with worry. the uni-grad doing taxi not for joy but because he has nothing to eat, no job in his field. The picture of seized splendour rises inside your heart and it hurts. Truth dawns - the thief looks good in your gucci's The rapist wears your scent like the devil wears prada He knows what he took he orgasms on memorable euphoria; rubs your face in the soil where your soul lives. Its all there in black and white - Your fist hits a bulls eye - colonialists must fall eat grass you slimeball! Peace-molester. la

Black Beauty

"I became a whole person when I finally put away the exile’s little packed suitcase. If I am ever liberated from this bondage of racialism, there are some things much more exciting to me, objectively, to write about. But this world has such a social orientation, and I am involved in this world and I can’t cut myself off.” ****Peter Abrahams - first internationally published Black South African author - 1946 "Mine Boy". I have been to Zimbabwe and experienced the fears and falling tears. I spent more than moments within the barracks of Nigeria and witnessed gruesome atrocities and the divides of rich and poor. The ghastly and animalistic slayings of refugees in South Africa and broader nations. Teens begging me to care less and let them die at their own hand - life in the trenches of the ghetto too painful and overwhelming. Poverty and abuse a hell hole most would do anything to be free of. I reflected and re-visited the sins of apartheid; it's authors a

Peeves, Perspectives and The Flag

They gag on our flag -   the old was "better".  how was it better being thrown off beaches;  out of trains,  buried in drains - barred from restaurants;  forced to enter side gates;  fed 2nd rate education;  kicked from our homes;  forcibly moved and  imprisoned for crossing the  "immorality act";  beaten and tortured;  murdered;  kicked and head-butted  for not having a pass;  playing music in secret places;  stealing away to indulge in the arts;  punished and  whipped when caught;  earning painful salaries;  called supervisor not  original designer; transferring your skills for nought.  How was it better  when bodies went missing;  domestic workers raped and harassed;  mixed babies born; not by men black or brown;  how was life better when we couldn't move beyond our space after 6. what joy was derived when  unable to fulfil your desired ambition because your colour wasn't right

The African Savanna

I was not crafted from your soil.   My feet cracked not from walking miles in your shoes. this is what you say - yet my heart laboured as it poured it's blood for your ebbing life. My eyes dried like autumn leaves as it dreamed your dreams stared into your vacant spaces and watched the darkening of your sun. Bony fingers drained of sleep; my convictions seeping into yellowed scrolls; squeezed through prohibited portholes I'm not like you - our southwestern, eastern northern borders crisscross, but our skin and kin are not same that's what you say, though the matching molecule of life flows through our veins, our fears and fight intricately woven in our mothers womb. The soil we tread is hers; borders cannot chain my purple passions. I have eaten from your wastelands and tasted the bitter wines of servitude that now burn inside my belly, Is the red you breathe not mine - Are we not the Africlan who cheer our liberation from the cup of a bloody savanna that feed