Happy hour, in his absence

With Jesus it has always been easy to deal with. His death was possibly drilling over two thousand years ago and as that of my father’s whose departure robbed me of a proper man’s touch before I could even learn to comprehend life and why was I so small while everything and everyone else was so gigantic.

In the case of Madlamini, I had no choice but to man up for my mother. I had to be the man she has always urged me to be. She was mourning her mother and my shoulders had to be broader to act as sanctuary for her fragile bone structure.

For something that happened almost five years ago, in my mother view the memory is still fresh and hurtful each day a silhouettes emulating her mother’s existence.

I assumed it gets easier, but apparently it never does.

One Saturday, in October, conceded all prospects of absolute fun, alcohol and gossip. The start, of course, was exciting and I found myself dubbing the day orgasmic.

All it took was the sight of a long lost acquaintance from the past for the day to swiftly press my emotions to the point of misery theme.

I had never been close to the woman who stood in front of me, but for one moment we had to be tight. Neither one of us planned it nor did we expect it, but shit split itself in half and we found each other embracing… Sobbing.

For someone who is well aware of how much appearance is valued in the presence of womanly men and broad-shouldered women, the masses at Neighbourgoods Market carried no value

“Oh, my goodness… Seeing you just brought back memories of him,” that was her mistake. I held her and I squeezed her so tight in an effort to hold back my tears.

“Please, say no more,” I whispered. That was my mistake.

Unfortunately, I was faced with a situation; a moment that brought the realisation that I have been pretending to have never been affected much by his death. For months, I would speak about him and the good times we used to have without a tinge of emotion. I was lying to myself. I hadn’t mourned his passing.

Lift your head up and stand tall… I think I took the phrase to heart and too far. I found myself comfortable in what I vowed I will never be. The bubbly me was visible despite suppressed emotions enthused by missing links in my life.

I hadn’t let go of him. Now, here I am. What must happen?

Happy read!

The last days

You would swear there was never a start to begin with. The beauty of a gloomy winter’s day vanishes, and a summer’s day becomes a total contrast to what your skin once felt. This is nothing more than the ending.

 

Once upon a time, you believed and trusted in a cybernetic conception your mind centered on grounds societies believe to be concrete. The grounds are firm. The hands that lay the bricks are in question. Whose hands could they be? They are not mine. You claim they are not yours too. No one wants to take the blame.

 

Almost always, the dead take the blame. We will find ourselves wanting to blame the dead and absent figures for the same responsibilities our hearts dared us to carry Unlike a crossroad; flanked by options from all remits, further routes begin and come to an end where your toenails cease to grow.

 

Where you are standing is all there is. At this point, reality is harsh and the view from the back cooks pain that is too much to bear. Your shoulders have not become broader as a man by virtue of growing testosterone; your shoulders have carried this same experienced before.

 

Woman, your breasts have not just protruded as a reaction to affluent penises; your heart has been beaten hard, once again. It is swollen. For unknown reasons, our foreheads are like those of our fathers, except something as petty as affection makes ours spurt sweat; unlike theirs.

 

Each day we live, we crawl towards achieving our heart longings; you could find us talking even when no one is paying attention. We believe people hear us. The same people we hold up high. Yet they are betrayed by their actions towards us, and we still intend to follow.

 

Many have come and gone, leaving scars of betrayal and ungratefulness. A few have stayed in the form of the packages we have become; independent and hold an objective aimed at the same satiation. With them, we lose every bit of fear, stretch the hand and reach for their intentions.

 

Today, we have broad shoulders and big breasts that can narrate our pains, but I believe we are still not listening. No matter how many times the dawn seizes the moment; accentuating ills ahead, one yearns to be important in someone’s life and one preys after individuals who can satiate this thirst.

 

Happy read!

Freedom

I am an offspring to South Africa; a country that possesses a history record that urges citizens to contribute towards an inclusive world where mutualism is a tool with which the world promotes peace and harmony among people.

The lessons her history has taught me, and my optimistic siblings, is that we can achieve anything when we stand together.

As South Africans, we pride ourselves with more than eighteen years of social equality. This era is a mirror reflecting the intense visuals of suffering, struggle and rebirth of a nation.

Yes, South Africa managed to defeat the system of segregation because people stood together as one.

Still, with that profound view of lessons and relic, and having just celebrated Freedom Day just a few days ago, we fail to understand that freedom without taking responsibility for your own well-being and without taking possession of your own destiny will unquestionably lead to some form of self-imposed oppression.

Happy read!

Romance - I am not a human being

He bows down and gives thanks to me, with both his hands doing the talking.

Both his hands stand firm on grounds I hardly step to.

My whole kingdom is his terrain.

Statements escaping my lips lead him to speak volumes.

He rotates his tongue, as if to lisper, and I am attentive.

From a landscape view; he has sunk deep into his speech.

Head facing up to a God who exists, my thumb has found my teeth.

My mouth is clustered and my tongue is forming forbidden words.

I call him words. He speaks loudly.

I curse his mother. His whole mouth swallows my kingdom.

My emotions have gone wild and my hands have found him.

He welcomes me as I approach. He leads me to a place. I find myself in a state.

Yet, I am pleased as he mumbles his last words.

He looks up, as he concludes. I bow down and give thanks to him.

With both my hands doing the talking.

Happy read!

I give birth to myself

I give birth to myself, so it seems.

I realised this as I mulled over which hole my skinny pipe should infiltrate.

Of course, its own intentions are flexible, as opposed to what my mind anticipates and lusts for.

My two hands clutch on it, hold it together and it behaves.

This way I find myself. And, this is how I know I give birth to myself.

I conserve resentment at the sight of discernment under my roof.

Yes, in the eyes of the enemy, I am capable of pulling punches with this broken wrist of mine.

I murmur hymns and silently recite celestial idioms; calling onto sincere influences.

Suddenly, I am entirely serene. That way, I realise I give birth to myself very often.

Surely, I give birth to myself.

Carrying an abbreviated burden, the world is still conspicuously beautiful in my eyes.

Bordering opinions toss attempts, this way. Yet, my pupils are fixed on the bigger picture.

I stretch both my lips, forcing them to part and interpret what the heart emits.

And then, the light seems to be all over the tunnel. This is how I know I give birth to myself.

I am convinced I give birth to myself because my etiquettes wear panties in sun-drenched climates.

Yep! I show my nipples in the rain, my pubes hang in washing lines, as my personality wanks in corridors.

But, my undies remain glued to my etiquettes. This is how I learn my water broke.

And, I understand that I continue to give birth to myself.

Happy read!