End of the year 1988, Anno Domini.
Dad was right. The pendulum marking
time is swaying. Left. Right. Pertinacious, solitary, scary. Ambivalent, a Temple
becomes. The sermons become prosaic. The wailing becomes louder. The tongues,
the language only the gods understand. Dogs bark. Rats bite dogs. Swallows shed
feathers on the streets. A people watch. We squealed. Yet, they march in
numbers, wail in numbers, for providential intervention. They even lament in tongues the gods once used. Lo and
behold, the Pharisees, they beam. The rumps swell. Now they need suspenders.
*
In the year 1989, Anno Domini.
Monday, January 9.
Wonder where Namakau is. Found
another economic pastime victim, I guess.
Wednesday, January 11.
Oh, not
again. Another solidarity march for the Pharisees. Surely someone has to tell
them, they can not be union of purpose with individuals whose sole interest is
increasing their rump sizes.
Oh, my…!. That woman is swinging it. Could
be she thinks some Pharisee will notice. Wonder what her children will think
when they watch her during the evening Temple TV script show. After all it is
always on Temple TV.
Sunday, January 15.
Now that
is novel. Full blues account number and street address. They surely don’t want
one to get lost. the rewards, riches in
heaven.
Pity the
fellows that seek riches through blues donations. Does not bother me much. They
read a different book any way.
Wednesday, January 18.
Today, the thought of even closing my
eyes in sleepy contentment and relaxation is scary. Not because I do not trust these
Pharisees, but more that their inconsistence, spontaneity, irrationality and
ejaculatory sermons on street children invokes a fear of sleep. Can not trust
them as tomorrow the scraggy street children behind our offices may be deemed
to have found happiness elsewhere when in fact they could be six feet
underground.
How come they can not tell us what
this operation Noah for street children is.
Thursday, February 9.
We are entrapped in a degenerate
state of idiocratic irresponsibility, mostly because the only rationality we
know, is the irrationalities of the Pharisees.
Monday, February 13.
He is so
quiet. What happened to the anger for history. Could be the present is also
changing him. It must be sorrowful seeking to change history, only to end up
being the change that marks the history.
Saturday, February 25.
Dad,
in the city youth sapped,
like a rag he is cast.
The sun rising in the misty horizon,
homeward he trudges,
a dusty spiral in his wake,
blowing away an illusion,
a better life.
The landscape he sees,
esoteric and embryonic,
the sounds of nature he hears,
mellifluous and mellow.
Through misty eyes in the distance,
he sees,
Tiny mud walled huts,
pregnant ragamuffins goggled eyed,
curious women weeping in joy,
men solemnly watching.
Melancholia creeping in,
a tear falls.
He is home.
Home,
a forlorn place in a desert,
no oasis near,
a meliorism lost.
Home,
a world on the edges of time.
Sunday, February 26.
That there is my world. All you that
seek to know me do not seek to come to my world. It is only a world in which, I
dwelled yesterday. You will seek my knowledge, and you will not find. For I,
man, to the unseeing, is only an anachronism.
Thursday, April 6.
These Pharisees are au
naturel!
Wednesday, April 26.
Really
have to put the damn Temple TV under the chop. Does not show anything worth
enhancing one’s understanding of the evolving reality. How do they expect to
change our circumstances when only Pharisee and Pharisee spouse talk. Little
‘did this, did that’ is all they damn show.
Come to
think of it, nothing significant ever happens in this land. So every
insignificant Pharisee and Pharisee spouse talk, little ‘did this, did that’
has to be recreated into something significant. Not us. We scribe as we see it.
Sunday, April 30.
Hooray! Nothingness, for an
existence!
A people wait for the rain. In the rain lie
their hopes. When the rain does not come, a people still continue waiting. Dodos.
But, lo and behold, yonder rich ancient streams
lie. As blind as a people can be, in such blindness Pharisees abounds. A people
on the edge of existence. Sermons, the blackguard of their existence.
Thursday, May 5.
Did I
hear them properly. Thanking a Pharisee for donating a pit-latrine!
Gosh. Answering the call of nature in
the bushes all your life-time, and you thank a Pharisee that has the pleasure
of answering the call of nature in a gold platted toilet bought through your
sweat. A sick people. Could be it. A sanatorium for a country!
Friday, June 16.
Thought
it is Soweto Day. Guess these Pharisees never heard of June 16, 1975. The day
the children in Soweto showed their parents how better to engage those that
dehumanise you.
Sunday, June 18.
The glory of God is not in how much
you shout about your God. It is about where your footprints in the sands of
history lead.
Saturday, July 1.
In the dark of the night, their dreams
shattered as like woodworms from the rotting walls of hope, Pharisees crawl. Slimy and odious yet still desirable. Such is a people’s libido,
even that which slims till the earth weeps in despair, a people still hold
dear.
Yes, I hear the earth weep. In the earth lies
the desire to have a people walk exotic flush gardens beneath which rich
ancient streams flow.
Yes, the earth seeks that in yesterday’s time,
tomorrow a child shall run and play in deep greener green meadows.
I hear the earth weep, because in yesterday’s
time was sown the seed. Have witnessed it in my time. Have failed to understand
it all, as I too, I am a part of this seemingly reckless existence.
Friday, August 18.
We continue to exist in an abyss of righteousness
simply because of our continued failure to accept that our immediate local
environments are the symmetry of the infinite immorality of the Pharisees.
Monday, September 11.
They do
not like the words of ink here. Well thought these Pharisees did not reason.
He is
scared, he is. Never thought his false sermon would be reproduced in indelible
words of ink. That is dad smiling. Sneaky old man.
Thursday, September 21.
Joyce Maya
again!
She
surely must be related to a Pharisee. How else can one be so loved. The damn TV
will surely face the chop!
Saturday, October 21.
Strange
white fellow. Excited about the country. Oh, what good service he got.
Told him
to paint himself black. Was he bewildered!
Decolonisation
of the mind, that is what is essential. Especially the Pharisees. always tongue tired when those ramrod straight
men from 700, 19th Street, N.W., Washington D.C., come visiting. Need
to tell the Pharisees to first take them to see impalas, when in fact they will
be seeing goats. After all the ramrod straight men do not know the difference. How
else do they prescribe Martian remedies.
Monday, October 23.
Oh no! It
is the ramrod straight men from 700, 19th Street, N.W., Washington
D.C. I had dreamt of. It is a workshop!
And what tongue
twisters!
Socially excluded, mainstreaming, paradigm, country driven.
Ah! Pro-poor!
I guess, they do not know that classifying humans is a means by which
the elite perpetuate social exclusion as a means of sustaining their
livelihoods.
Thursday, November 9.
He is
educated. He has titles before his name. Strange he is convinced the Exalted
Revered Pharisee is anointed by the gods!
Pity, his
children. An educated illiterate Dr. Something, for a father.
Indeed! It is sad that we can educate
humans, but we can not make them intelligent.
Any way, you are educated only to the
extent people appreciate your intelligence.
Friday, November 10.
Now wait!
She is a
Pharisee. Thought she is the one I saw swinging it. Well indeed someone noticed.
Only wish her well. Hope there is no hereafter contract that was abrogated.
Sunday, November 12.
Hope. Only destitution. Will they
ever learn!
Hope is tears without sorrow. The
anticipation of change that always dissipates before dawn.
Perhaps, not. Hope is a feather in a
whirlwind.
*
Days in the year 1990, Anno Domini, and thereafter. Gosh!
I thought only I, the genius, keeps a testament. Wonder what he calls it. At
least mine is hidden.
Thursday, February 15.
Son,
naked children,
spindly legs over heels,
joy and happiness abounding,
the skies beaming,
fish eagles dancing,
calves chased,
birds raced.
Oh,
tightly hurdled together,
head on spindly knees,
the skies weeping,
cattle lazily chewing the cud,
a lonely boy sits,
the eye does not wonder.
Mopane bees buzzing,
hands swatting,
an aged boy smiles,
the eyes,
only specks of longing.
A child listens,
a life bemoaned.
Longings,
blue skies,
only sparrows reach,
such is the story.
Africa tragedy,
feelings shared,
a child reaches out.
Thursday, March 1.
Son,
on a shaggy head,
a calabash sits,
a child in a sackcloth,
delicately hanging on saggy bottoms,
firewood clutched to the bosom,
from the well,
a woman returns,
weary and famished.
Oh,
solitary thatched huts in the
distance,
smoke seeking the steaming
skies.
Mopane shades cool and soothing,
a beer calabash floating,
the transgressions of women,
a meal delayed,
a child crying,
men rumble,
men grumble.
Shrivelled breasts sagging,
a sackcloth can not hide,
grandma smiles,
a skeletal bosom heaving,
last breaths taken.
As a child listens,
a weary soul rests forevermore.
Memories lasting,
green grasses singing,
such is the story,
understanding asunder.
Africa,
a child walking into a desert.
Sunday, March 4.
Son,
from behind the dark clouds,
the moon comes solemn and esoteric,
yet a people await a great event,
orgiastic and orgasmic.
Rose petals litter the streets.
The count continues,
the clock ticks.
As from the distance,
the dawn comes serene and mystic,
the hour descends,
the skies,
the birds take.
A people dance,
a Jesus at last,
on a new footpath,
a people seek to walk.
In the skies the moon weeps.
This Jesus the moon has seen before,
a shadow,
in which lurks sinister desires,
a garden,
in which roses grow not,
a river,
where water flows not,
mountains,
on an abyss,
a bridge,
to limbus factuorum.
If this be the Jesus,
the moon seeks not,
to light the night.
In the fading light,
the twilight comes,
scary and omnipotent,
disciples walk away.
In the shadows,
the sinister desires they witnessed,
in the garden,
thorns grow.
If this be the Jesus,
disciples seeks not to,
walk on rose petals,
be waters,
in a river that is not,
mountains,
on an abyss,
a bridge,
to limbus factuorum.
Alas,
darkness descending,
as shrouded as,
the dark confines of a coffin,
a people grope blindly.
Walking streets,
littered by withered rose petals,
calling out to a Jesus,
a
shadow,
a river,
a bridge they knew not.
Son,
if this be the Jesus,
with the moon I shall weep. gosh, he has been busy!
Tuesday, March 6.
It is so quiet in here.
Mama,
it is so quiet in here.
They are so quiet.
Was that a child coughing?
The cough,
sonority the ears cannot bear.
Mama,
why did the child cough?
Silence,
mama becomes.
The silence so deep,
Its reach I feel.
In the silence,
the earth falling,
dull sounds resonating on a wooden box,
a tear falls.
Mama,
she weeps.
It is so quiet in here,
I cannot see,
I cannot breathe.
It is so quiet.
The silence a lullaby,
only tears touch.
Was that a laugh?
He laughed.
In a silent world,
a child coughing,
the earth falling,
dull sounds resonating on a wooden box,
mama weeping,
A Pharisee laughed.
Africa tragedy,
our silence,
their laughter,
ora pro nobis.
Saturday, March 10.
The
worst form of social degeneracy is the pretence that one can enjoy one's good
fortune amidst sinewy forelimbs seeking the lullaby of alms. And the wailing in
his name, a nauseating dissonance that the gods shy from.
Tuesday, March 13.
Talking
is an art. Do not talk if you have not mastered the art, lest you sound like a
Pharisee. He did indeed sound like a Pharisee. Trying to convince me that the
people are not poor, they are just damn lazy. Well, from where I stand, the
people are only lazy as far they allow Pharisees to continue pontificating
inane sermons.
Wednesday, March 14.
Your scribing is unreasonable,
unpatriotic, full of hate. Blimey! What failure of reason.
Wait. Good idea.
Friday, March 16.
The
Messenger - Failure of
reason.
Well, this week someone asked me an
arousing question. The question was on the mislaid assertion that at The Messenger we hate the Pharisees and our
country. You see this fellow went on to give me a three-hour lecture on how
godly the Pharisees are. The gods would have been impressed.
He went on to argue that the problem
with half-halfs like me is that we are unpatriotic, and incorrigible.
Incorrigible! I had no doubt, he admires the Pharisees’ sermons.
The truism is, I do not hate the
Pharisees and country. I actually love the Pharisees and my country. Hate is a
feeling of dislike so strong that it demands action. If I hated Pharisees, the
only action that would avert my aversion would be to decimate the objects of my
hate. That way I would have peace of mind. My blood pressure would not be soaring
whenever they give us a dose of their blah blah sermons on whose foolish or how
committed they are to alleviating the people’s nothingness.
The truism is ,I love Pharisees and
country. Love is a deep feeling of desire and attraction. Love is care. I care.
When one loves, it is desirable and attractable that one always reminds the
people he or she loves of their destructive religions, falsehoods, and more so
their existence in a contradiction of ideas that to any reasoning person is
clearly the determining factor in their being Pharisees. Destructive religions,
falsehood, or deliberate self-conceited contradictions can only be remedied if
they are identified and ideated.
It is an expression of hate to be a
sycophant and applaud a Pharisee you so claim to love, when in fact the Pharisee
masquerades as a saviour or a principled and committed preacher.
Principle and commitment are historic
constructs. They are not attributes that can be bought at the Sunday market. Principle
and commitment are a cardinal function of reason. To argue that someone is
principled and has commitment, is to assert that someone shows reasoning within
known historic constructs. What must always be borne in mind is that reasoning
is a process of creating an acceptable whole from the separates, both present
and past. To suppose that an individual that exists outside the deranged
bounded reality of sycophancy, historic amnesia, and buffoonery is filled with
hate, is simply a manifestation of failure of reason.
Saturday, March 17.
They came.
They asked. They searched. Seems they never tire of asking and searching. Ah,
lost souls. That is what they called us.
Really
wonder who is lost.
Sunday, March 18.
She cares
for the less privileged. She does. She even has a community initiative.
Strange. How
come I never heard of the innovation until she wedded a Pharisee. What righteousness! And the Temple scripts hit
paper with vigour. Obsequious cretins.
Really
does not excite me at all. After all the proliferation of community initiatives
is symptomatic of failure of the State.
Tuesday, March 20.
Mama,
the sun setting low,
the horizon,
pale and dusty.
Time crawling,
children whining,
homewards,
they labour.
Behind the land,
a rocky surface,
no crop desires,
The skies,
a river,
where no waters dance,
The desolation,
a melancholic lullaby.
In the distance,
skeletal mellow figures hang
timelessly,
so much work,
for so short a period of satiety,
that is coitus.
Green flies buzzing,
meat on the pavement,
coins jingle,
a child smiles.
A meal for a famished body,
only a nostalgic lullaby.
Along a country road,
in a wattle and daub shack,
rain drops dropping,
a piercing lullaby.
Jobs,
more cowry shells,
petals of a new rose,
a malignant singsong,
the wireless resonates.
Alas,
in a house,
along a beautiful street,
a Pharisee sits tall,
taller than most men,
Over a people’s rhythms,
he procrastinates,
his greatness,
a malignant singsong,
his Apostles, cuckoo.
Petals of a new rose,
an advisor croaks,
bulky,
and the seams,
the clothes cannot hold.
They dance.
Jobs, cowry shells,
something indeed,
petals of a new rose,
only smoke,
in a tempest.
Friday, March 23.
Alas! She
defended her being always scribe worthy!
What
impunity. Really wonder where she crawled from. Who said she is holier too.
Saturday, March 24.
We talk
for a purpose. That is to communicate. These Pharisees do not. Could be they
think their voices are melodious. If only they know, they sound like scratched
old records on a gramophone that uses a Muunga thorn.
Monday, March 26.
The Messenger - The Dodo is an extinct bird.
Just when I thought the dodo is an
extinct bird, yesterday I saw it thrashing about attempting to take to the skies,
when it knew too well it does not fly. It really was a pitiful sight. Watching
this heavy bird, hungering for the skies like its kin – the pigeons. The sky is
freedom – an everlasting monument. An inspiration - vast and endlessly blue.
The dodo could not touch the sky, and may be that is why it became extinct.
When, listening to the sermons in this
backwater country, one realises that Pharisees seem not to have learnt of the
dodo. They have this mysterious tendency of blabbering about or doing what in
their bothersome opinions can lead to being next to the son in their imagined Shangri-la.
I no longer have any shred of doubt
that these Pharisees are seriously afflicted with delusions of political
grandeur, despite already suffering from an intellectual coma. Could be in
their lonely moments, they visualise ophidian-like statues of themselves long
after they have ended up in the place of many crosses. It is a pity they are
not mindful of the simple fact that, as long as most fail to worship the gods
of the stomach, that statue will only exist in scheol - the world of the dead.
For like the dodo, they will soon be extinct.
Wednesday, March 28.
We often
meet people simply because they add meaning to our lives. Surely that Pharisee
added meaning to my life.
The
desire to reduce homo sapiens by a factor of one!
Thursday, March 29.
He thinks
he is more intelligent than us. Gosh, how I love this defeatist lullaby. And he is a deacon for unemployment.
*
They sincerely did not like March. Came round. Shouted. Searched.
Carted us to the Fuzz Temple. Did not tell us anything. Dad laughs. They did
not like it even more. Warn and caution.
Against what, only the gods knew.
Back home. He is sad. He is. Rather
too pensive.
Son. There we go. Something on his
mind. Mom. No. Something else. Oh, gosh! Now he is smiling. He is laughing.
What is funny. Does not hear. Tears
are falling. Feels good seeing him laughing.
Son,
fat, scrawny, short, tall,
what forms they come in.
In the fall of the guns,
the death of a relative,
the leisurely leave of a different
people.
Uh,
the count of pieces of paper,
what many ways,
they come through.
These came on pieces of paper,
promises of rose petals.
We love,
adore them.
Their feet,
we yearn to kiss,
their hands,
we desperately seek.
They are anointed,
by the gods,
some make us believe.
When they pass,
the streets we throng,
the trees,
oh,
the branches,
we break and wave.
And,
the dancing,
wriggling our bottoms in ecstasy.
Son,
when their mouths run loose,
orgiastic we become,
the applause,
not an earthquake can equal.
Yet vain,
are their words,
nothingness,
their deeds.
Oh,
the poor fellow,
that patched their words,
no accolade.
Alas,
in the quiet of our homes,
stomachs rumble,
children cry and cry,
mothers,
despairingly watching.
In the hospitals,
the antiseptic odour,
vainly tries to perfume our putrid
bodies.
Oh,
and the land,
the dead, it consumes voraciously.
Yet,
when the morning comes,
illusory is our memory,
gone is our misery.
After all,
they have come to visit.
And,
again the streets we throng,
the trees,
how they suffer.
The dancing,
the gods shy away.
Son,
if only we know,
our love for the Pharisees,
is only the laugh of a life time. Strange
old man. Not very funny. Stood up. Walked
away to my testament. Old man was an inspiration.
*
Saturday, October 6.
Wonder. What is in his. Guess he wont
mind me taking a peep.
Son,
he is coming.
From squalor,
the children trickle,
irresolute and wary.
A time remembered,
a time of hope,
a time stolen.
On a podium,
a Pharisee sprawls,
beaming,
resolute.
Blind,
as they come,
the children,
dance no more,
yet he sees not.
Deaf as they are,
discordant rhythms resonating,
the children,
applaud no more,
yet he hears not.
New rose petals,
an advisor whispering,
a Pharisee glows.
The crows crow.
Tomorrow coming,
the children shrug,
a rhythm remembered,
petals of roses,
only a Mopane leaf,
in a fast flowing stream.
*
The year 1991 Anno Domini. Days in the thereafter. Now
finding his a better read. But why is he
now leaving it where every Jim and Jack can read it?
Monday, May 6.
Son,
from the window,
humanity scurrying,
like ants,
before a rain storm,
we do not see.
Sands of time moving,
a grain of sand elsewhere,
does not move.
Words whispered,
in the howling wind,
only the deaf hear.
Rain falling,
a thatch removed,
puddles on the floor,
the sky falling.
How there be sunshine,
the skin drips.
The sun darkening,
a candle,
does not light,
scary darkness swarming,
whisperings of flowers,
the singing of silence,
only,
mellifluous sounds in vain.
Such is the story.
Africa tragedy,
voices in vain,
ora pro nobis.
*
Sitting at home. Not much to talk about. He philosophises
about justice. Likens it to the gods dwelling place. Wherever that is. Reflected
on my testament. He had to know my thoughts.
Dad,
it can never be right,
it can never be wrong,
the replication of the gods’ dwelling
place on earth.
Religious justice,
Idiocracy,
many cry out.
In the skies,
the gods solemnly watch,
behind bars,
in death row,
somebody weeps.
We want the freeness of a bird,
Yet,
we do not want the skies.
Give us the skies,
take the skies away,
it matters none.
Give us the skies,
many, shall we trample on.
Take the skies away,
to a shallow grave, many shall go.
Give the skies to us,
blood, shall we shed.
Take the skies away from us,
the earth shall burn.
Dad,
the replication of the gods’ dwelling
place,
in the end it matters none…, he is now pensive. Does not
respond. Shakes his head. Must be thinking of the faith. Am beginning to lose
it, despite the days of yesteryears in Backwaters. The times among feathers of
a trapped bird. Why should I have the faith. They don’t have it. He shrugs.
Son,
the sun,
is always rising elsewhere,
always rising.
Horizons,
glittering and golden,
Birds,
melodiously singing,
in the blue skies.
Children playing,
laughing,
in open meadows.
Setting sun children watching,
eyes watery,
and longing.
A life denied,
a life in an abyss.
Waters in secluded plains,
no rivers flowing,
no rain falling,
stale the waters become.
Blue open skies abounding,
birds screeching,
no melody,
no rhythm.
Pale grey horizons,
the setting sun,
always setting,
setting sun children weeping.
Yet, they talk of petals of new roses. Now he is sad. A
tear falls. For many, dad wept. I walk
away. It is history. He wept!
Dad wept.
Not a good sign at all. Foreboding, now a state of mind.
*
November 1991.
Son, it is happening South. Can you
go down there. Can not believe him. Sending his own flesh and blood, where
bullets race birds. Thought could be fun. Took lots of pictures. Was rather
some crazies, still believing in Hitler philosophy. Even went to church there. Had
the best experience. They even pray to the same God. Couldn’t keep it out of
the Chronicles of the Fourth Dimension.
*
Sunday, November 17.
Mama,
in a foreign land I am,
different,
yet alike,
not a care I had.
It is Sunday,
on a Church patio I stand,
as solemn as the bereaved,
to believers I bow.
Along comes the child.
Look mummy,
he didn't bath,
the child she says.
Mummy,
she listens not.
The child,
she brave.
Sir,
you are too dirty for Church.
Nay I says,
the child,
she nay understands.
You are as black as coal.
Yes child,
I a black man,
touch me,
nay dirty you find.
Touches me she does,
what a smile.
How come,
you like me,
yet you black,
the child she asks.
My child I says,
there are black cats,
grey cats,
and,
there are white cats.
Yet all are cats,
the child she adds,
mirthful,
glowing.
To mummy she runs,
promises of,
see you at evening Mass,
Mummy,
she nay pleased.
Evening Mass comes,
as messianic,
as the saviour.
The child,
she nay child no more.
Stinking kaffir,
the child she says,
her nose,
she holds.
Mummy,
she smiles,
as broad as the Mississippi.
Indeed, innocence is,
the age before mis-education.
The child,
innocence lost,
black cats nay cats,
white cats nay cats too. I laugh. Wondered whose God, he is in the end
anyway.
*
Returned to glory. Old brains always wiser. The articles I
posted, did it. Zambesia is no longer a tiny republic in the backwaters of
Africa. The Boss of a dad is now growing younger every day.
*
Days in the year 1992 Anno Domini.
In February, was invited to give a talk to the African
Young Inner Temple's Forum. A rather new innovation, to befit the adage, the
youth are the Pharisees of tomorrow. Did
not see that many youths. Unless youth greys early. He surely needs a peniscope.
Could be, even youth blossoms around the
gut. Any way need to talk.
My fellow youth, that this country needs a religious change…
The word on my mind is violent, but can not utter the
sinful word. Mine is a peaceful country. So peaceful, that children take to the
place of many crosses like sparrows take to the skies before the vagaries of
winter.
Can only be doubted by those that walk the footpaths the Pharisees walk…
Gosh not sounding right. Backwaters, its experience should
be the lecture. Surely other youth need to enter my world. Any way.
Youth today, is no longer a beautiful serene virginal experience. In youth today, there is
no laughter, no warmth, no happy songs. Only sad eyes, whose depth reflect despondency
and destitution, in a country run by those whose preoccupation is only
illusions of grandeur, anointment by some unknown gods, and we always applaud.
We do…
Now, that sounds better. Is getting better. That must be
dad smiling. What is he doing here. He is not a youth.
Yes, in their illusions, they exists not a purpose of others worshiping
the gods of the stomach. They exists not a dream of meadows we can identify
with. They exists not a footpath we too can calmly walk tomorrow. Or do they?
No heads nodding. Well could be, we understand our reality
differently. At least my understanding is not from the Pharisees.
What is the essence of their rule? It can not surely still be the need to
reclaim the comfort of our land from those that crossed seas hundreds of years
ago. Neither can it still be the need to cleanse the evils of the bygone
Pharisees? What evils any way, when these Pharisees are a product of the evils?
The tendency to always blame history is nothing but a manifestation of the
inability to face the future, to change the future.
That is surely a head nodding. Clever girl. Or is it
attention seeking. Not bad looking anyway. At last, I am communicating. That is
a cacophony of assent. Thanks bro. But you don’t need to be that loud. Well, I
like those smiles.
It is unacceptable of youth to continue pretending that the Pharisees are
holy. That they can define the change we need. No, these Pharisees can not.
I plead.
It is unjust for the youth today to pass on their changeable reality to
the youth not yet to be – the children.
We must always remember. It is written in the stars, that ours shall be
the kingdom. It is written in the stars that we are all stars. Our ways should
light the path of darkness, not only for ourselves but more so for those that
come before us, for those that do not have the strength to walk with us, and
for those that fell before us. We are the light, and our ways, not our words,
should be the living monuments of that light.
This is the promise, and we should try always not to break it.
Children come in from the dark into our world, frail and weak, and it is
our promise that the children run and play in open skies and greener green open
fields.
It is our promise that tomorrow, the children walk with us, as we should
be the light.
It is our promise that tomorrow, the children too become the light for
those to come before them.
This has to be our promise. To be the words that are written in stars.
Thus, my friends, I say to you, if we don’t change our ways, when our
children seek our footprints in the sands of history, they will arrive at only
one conclusion. 'We went nowhere’.
The cacophony now rising. He clapped too. Thanks chair. Standing
ovation, at last. But chair, not too
happy. Head bowed. Could be, he is related to a Pharisee. Gratitude is in order.
Thank you, thank you.
What did the chair whisper. Ah!
Before winding up you should also comment on matters of religious
priority. You need to praise The Revered Exalted Pharisee.
For what? The man must be sick. How could he have the
nerve to ask me to repeat nothingness as issues of religious priority.
More applause still. They have understood, they have. Chair
is shaking his head. Must regret having
invited me. We have before us a youth who diligently writes for The Messenger. And he had smiled. Well
now, look who is smiling.
They are still applauding. They toast.
He beams. He is proud.
Thanks son, you have learned well. Interesting.
Should one day open the testament for him - of the days of yesteryears in
Backwaters. He surely should know. Where are they. Must have sneaked out. Damn them.
*
The applause has ended. The youths are screaming. Now
nobody is applauding anymore, except dad. They can no longer stand our odour. It
can be caught miles away.
The Fuzz came. Took me away. Dad
threatens to cry bloody stifling of religious rights. Warned me to be careful. I thought they are the ones who should be
careful. The wailing was getting louder.
The dogs, the rats, the doves, were now uncontrollable.
*
Monday, June 15.
It happened.
It had happened before. Different
camels chased, like sparrows northward they flew, cold uncertainty in its wake. Fragility a
people become. The reach of their hand,
a people did not understand. Independence, idiocracy. The drums fill the air. Pharisees leered.
Then the nights begin. Listless cold
shadows prowl. Dissidents, voices in the wilderness become. In cold sweats, a
people bath. Loved ones go away. Where, many do not want to know. Whispers in the night, a people do not hear.
Then came that one night, in cold
sweats of fear a people bathed. Still was the night. No peace, no laughter. Only
the sound of heavy boots. Keenly cold shadows prowl. From their beds, loved
ones are taken. In the golden hue of the new dawn, into shallow graves loved
ones go. No tombstones, no preachermen's words, no wailing. The pain a people
hide, the grief, who can not show.
Yet, in the silence of the evening
guns, the helicopters, the soft mourning. Coup d'etat, the evening twilight bellowing. The
streets a people take.
Heroes, cold shadows become.
Hallelujah, only memories of
darkness.
Petals of roses wither, another rose
blossoms.
Hooray, Zambesia.
*
Still in June. They are dancing, again.
For all the love that knows the
painful moments,
needling me torturously.
I am bowing my endless thoughts of
you to tell you...
The void of an empty heart dominates,
failure overpowers,
an empty heart,
an unwanted heart,
is a cry in the dark of the night,
a silent death others see only with
hindsight.
The dreary wind hisses,
in awkward tunes that clouds a
wilting fate.
Then rain,
the heavenly teardrops,
seeming endless.
Pale grey eyes locked on a future that
has no image,
the mind dwells in thoughts that lack
meaning.
The screaming silence,
terrorises melancholic hope.
The desert sands are coming,
the last grasp,
will only be a straw that snaps
before the sand storm.
*
On the way to a plane to a distant
land. To the window I turn. I look out. On
the horizon, thick smoke spirals into the skies. So distant, so detached. I do
not reach out, I do not touch. I do not
return. My peace at a precipice. My soul chilled, my heart cries out.
Distant thunder claps I hear. The cries, the anguish
on the horizon, I do not hear. Desert
sands I see. In my heart, famished multitudes seek sanctuary. The sanctuary
sought is distant. Alas, a people I have failed.
I could have stayed. I could have
walked there. Like a date palm I was. Desert sands swelling. No trees, shrubs,
to stem the flow. Only of my self I cared. Now desert sands are here, I too is
famished. No peace. No sleep.
Well, I hope sweet mom will be
sweeter.
*
