A SECURITY GUARD

Behind the red eyes was once a man
This men who carries a rifle was once a child
He wears Ray ban sunglasses to hide his human eyes
She is concealing the humanity within

There was no money for his family
He decided to sell his sole to the devilish Security Company
There he signed a contract to kill his fellow human beings
His contract will only be terminated by his death

Futsheck: echoes in his foul mouth
The language that only the tsotsis can understand
He uses vulgar without hesitation
But the voice shakes with the sound of vulgar

He is terrified and he knows no way-out
In the crime ridden world he leaves in

For a Rape victim: who is not crying

She weeps not,
Not because she feels no pain,
Not because she has not been humiliated,
But because she feels like she will not be heard.
Her voice will be so hollow so much that her conquerors will victor.

Weep child, to show that you are human,
Your human voice will heal your wounds.
I heard that they raped not only you but also your soul.
Soulless was their act of barbarism,
They even had decency to eat after such holocaust.

She will never cry,
Because forensic investigators are raping her know.
Their interrogations are rooted with fear for women.
Women with wombs that reproduce a countless criminals,
With backs that carry these monstrous figures that hear no plea.
Plea falls in deaf ears that are manifested with dirt and cockroaches

If the law cannot be with her only I can empathize with her.
I will say weep child, let go of the uneasiness within your self.

A war cry for peace seekers

Prepare your selves for the struggle
The struggle that will unfold as the wrangle
The one Sembene talks about in his strike
The voice comes as far as east Africa in Lome and Accra

The struggle will request us to trace our past in as far as Nile
Where voices of elephants, lioness roar a mile
They roar for the hide of the bag I carry
Like the land repossessed in Zimbabwe and them are unstoppably.

My glasses cannot see a distant war
They resist with the fear of the change
The change even ring warriors fear but face
Yet they rumble in hope of the gold

Yet trees with their green that invite melodious bed songs,
I will help me not to forget the sufferings of the people.

SIZWE NGOMNYAMA.

Of the regiments of Senzangakbhona and Makhanda
Of the bettles of Sandlwane and Mngqanga
You remind me of the duels of boys in their boyhood
Yes you evoke the memories of young man betting to defend their territories.

Makwedini you remind me of the 1976 generation.
The generation that never went forward with reverse.
The generation that we only heard it’s doom through sirens,
Sirens and ballabhelams, that resounded in their troubling dreams.

I was wondering where my brothers are,
I was wondering who to call into order,
when the baton became the order of the day.
I was pondering what will be the other when the blood spills?
I was wondering who to call when the battle ensues?

Yes sizwe ngenyama when the blood spills.
Yes sizwe ngenyama, sabona ngembola igazi xa liphalala.

Rubble diamond:

How will it be when we change roles?
No, what will it cause when we switch sides?
Women will become the patriarchal men.
Men will become their subservient wives.

Will it be good when we switch wallets?
No. will it be good when we exchange bellies?
Bellies of the poor will be red because they are well-fed.
They will be fed through the toil of the squirming civil servants.

The majority would exploit the minority,
And the voice of the minority will not be heard.
It will be conquered by the roaring of the African lions.
That devoured many exiles in freedom fighting.

I will keep on searching with my eyes fixed on the trophy.
Even if it will be the head of the king, I will settle for it.

Africa's War cry

They cry a cry, the haunting one
A cry that is not a cry of a baby
Mine is the cry for justice.
Their cry is for the compromised agreement.
Abortion and postponement of the struggle
Of the People of our Land.

Buried bodies are turning, deceased corpses are mourning.
They refuse to rest whilst their country is not free.
Trenches are filled with betrayed souls
Yet we rejoice free- doom.

What is democracy without freedom and justice?
Hush child!! My mother land will be free.
This is mere postponement or delayel of the struggle.
Termination will come in the form of execution and fighting.

I also agree that “Not yet Uhuru”
The freedom child, so motherless like the Hundi
Will one day be parented?

I have seen in Bholokodlela

Dark houses that used to be white depicting the suffering.
Of old cupboards decorated with the bottles of fish eagles.
Dark Expensive bottles which brands their sons.
Who could not buy a cloth or a grain of rice for their mothers?

Obviously something is wrong in my father’s village, in my country.
That has been shown by the rummage of my brothers and sisters.
They have no shame or honour to defend, but taverns to occupy.
They drink as if alcohol is going out of fashion, of theirs.

I refuse to believe we shared the same breasts.
Maybe they were breastfed with liquor.
I smell the odour in their vulgar gasps.
Which can be traced in their big brownish tooth when they sigh?

Where are the gospel preachers and elders to show us the way?
Are they the ones who are also in these taverns owned by our mothers?

I am throwing in the towel.

Reminisce on Mthonjeni village

At the foot of the mountain,
Lies a village that is the fountain.
I have gulped milk of the goats of this mountain with no conscience.
I was just a child with no sense of justice.

On the top of the river Sidubi
Flows the banks where I used to play the oxen inkunzi uBim,
This is where I used to imagine and imitate my fathers bull Ubhayizani.
Our eyes were red because of river water we played in with no fear of malaria.

Just at the knee of Qamata irrigation scheme is where I trace,
flowing of the furrows that irrigate our fields.
The same fields that produce enough corn feeding our people.
The size of the rich corn is the size of a herd boy’s stomach.

My imagination will always gulp on the indulgences of my childhood
I will always steal the corn on my imagination good for my own good.