Spit in my Left Eye

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

"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

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

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

We try.... we grind. We cry .... despair. ... each day a plea..... God help us this world's aflame - Humanity rots before our eyes We pray We plead We despair hope flickers falters falters fades We try Grind cry despair Lord, exterminate this scourge. (C) Jambiya "The power of words".

Zimbabwe 1984 - I was a young girl who had a relatively easy and privileged upbringing in a middle class suburb in South Africa. We walked into a water crises - a system shocker. We bathed in each others water - whites, blacks, Indian. The team. We represented various nations of the world - the Zimbabwian rifles did not enjoy our presence - I was introduced to political strife as one regime positioned itself to overthrow another. It was my introduction to war outside of my own countries borders. We were hated and I didn't understand why, because our message was one of love. I sat with a "man-servant" (as they were called then), and heard his dry mouthed anxiety for the future - bread and butter; His next job; unwittingly a victim of a socio-economic alcatraz. A little blonde-haired girl crawled onto my lap and asked why I had such curly hair - Amongst my black sisters my hair was "white". Indians embraced me more because they saw my gra

When I come face to face with desolation; naked trauma caused by absent fathers my head and heart screams - it screams in anger and frustration - I want to use uninvented expletives because my pen must translate the pain and anger your absence has caused. Hollow Contemptible candy ass impotent grey matter, wretched scrotum sac. Preachers, pastors ministers I don't care how called you are - tend to your children - and no! Not the ones who call you "papa or daddy" and give you a spiritual ego-rise and a backstroke; but the ones you fathered with your blood. Mr executive, effervescent maestro  jelly bean businessman or trying tycoon You are a dangerous speciman of seminal vesicles when finance replaces your footprint. You leave broken children wallowing in torment and affliction; craving affirmation and value; prey for poachers. I'm sick and tired of crying with those who mourn your absence yet not your death. your rejection of your own would give