I Slept a Child....

---Tears of my youth. Days rushed by, reminiscent of pasts that have left hollowness in spaces where love once lived. Aching bodies and tired hearts. Tears of our youth leave salty tastes in the buds of our minds. These are tears of our youth, as we cry for one more yesterday and shift heavy cargo loads onto the shoulders of those we see fit. Strong enough. Tears of my youth. The days rushed by. She slept a child, dreams of becoming a woman. Nightmares became the only reality---


Last morning I woke up feeling undermined. Disrespected even. I woke up feeling unmasked, stripped of my role in life, not of my dignity but of my right. My right to being, my right to being a child, my right to being mommas child.

You see this feeling actually started on Thursday evening. I only dragged it long enough for it to inspire my creative senses on a Friday morning. This feeling sprung on Thursday evening when momma called to tell me..No, I'm not phrasing this right, when momma called to scream in my ears;

"YOUR CAR WON'T START"
Pardon me for I laughed as I asked
"But momma what car now, I haven't bought one yet?"

She then went off on a rampage as is her nature to take to screaming when things don't go her way and you wind up messing the dialogue she had created in her head. "Hela ausi, ho ja oa bona na u letsetsa bo mang to come and fix this car hoba 'na ke khathets'e ke hoba 'M'e le Ntate. I am not forking out a cent for this"

My instinct was to hang up and tell her we'll talk later but I have claimed ownership for last words so even in this scenario, they had to be mine, "Fela Mpo le uena u ea sukulisa, on Tuesday when I borrowed it and you refused, it was not mine then but yours instead- I was the misfit that left chocolate wrappers and books lying in it but now that you need my help, it has become mine overnight?" I hung up.

 I was not having it. Or wasn't I?

Lets fast forward to Friday morning and I'm waking up to chaos. Feet shuffling in the passageway, water drops and sounds of panic bring me to my feet. Before I'm out of bed, momma has flung my door wide open "Meme, there is a leak coming from the ceiling, tlo thusane" I swear if it was not for the saliva I held in so tightly, the first words out of my mouth would have been "Aaaache. Empa 'na ke monyane, how am I supposed to help joale"

Another can opening of worms that still roam too freshly in my mind. Why is this woman so keen to tell me all the problems of this house as though I come with ready packed solutions? From frozen engines to geyser leaks? Mos who is she thinking I am? The man of the house?

I did not bother to think of the days when I was too young for my opinion to matter and hurriedly anticipated years in which she would consult me on even the purchasing of a new cutlery set. No. I was too consumed in my frustrations to realize that I am all this woman has and for that I should be eternally grateful that she gives me the front ropes on her trust cycle. Last morning I was too hung up on self and worries that belong to me to even realize the burdens that this woman has carried, for both me and her. Last morning I cried in fits of rage as I took to twitter streets to rant about my 'misfortune'.

 Broken Children. Brought up in These Broken Homes. 

Raised up with intact Hopes. 

That They Will Grow Up To Fill These Hollow Holes

 We Products of Broken Homes. 

Grew Up Broken Anyway. 

For Soaring Expectations That We Grow Up To Occupy Lonely Spaces That Won't Fill.

 Childhood is Excused. 

The Journey Of Young Adulthood Is Only a Spook.

 The Unspoken Promise Was That You Come Up To Fit This Mans Shoes

 So in Essence You Raise Me Up into the Monster You Yourself Created.

 You Raise Me To Fit Into The Shoes of The One You Chose To Hate?

 This Oxymoron. 

You Have Portrayed It In Simplistic Manners.

 The Complexity of This Situation You Engage With Eased Rhetoric

I wrote that out to momma. To make her understand my position, where I fit in in her line of expectations. I tried to make momma understand, that I could never be the man of the house, only her rock should she ever need one. I wrote that as an attempt to apologize to momma, that in her time of need I came short. All I've been to you was a child, so I resort, to my child-like ways.

But just like you

I am a strong woman now Momma

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution....

She's an Angry Black Woman

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--"I walk with my head held high and act like I’m cool but really-- I am scared. And you are the constellation that guides me home, the star that lights my path. You remind me of love and hope and action and dignity, like Muhammad Ali we will stand for something and I am sensitive...and knit picky about lint. And sometimes too emotional and other times not emotional enough because my youth was bruised and you massage me back to life with Your rhythm. Your words. Your spirit. " - Gina Loring ---

I must first apologize for it feels like it’s been forever since I last made an appearance in this vicinity. Life is busy and we must succumb before we can learn to make sense of this chaos.

Now that that has been cleared, the rest of the clearing should be of the heart. Of the heart because it is heavy, it is wounded, no amount of stitching will ever repair this damage that has been done. This damage that has left a woman angry and the world will never get it because it is the predisposition of black women to be angry. Anger is an emotion that any black woman is all too familiar with. It’s an action we present with passion, a feeling we grew up exposed to. It’s been a way of life for the black community for we stay angry at incidences that we have no control or say over. We remain imprisoned in shackles of anger at systems that caught us off guard and used our vulnerability against us. Systems of patriarchy, of sexism of religion all in the desire of keeping us within the boundaries of these Pandora boxes we exist in and intact behind the shadows of the puppet master that controls our thoughts, our actions and consequently, our destinies.

So yes. I am angry and I believe that my anger is justified. I will also remain angry until me freedom has come and I have the liberty to roam these streets without being subjected to a visual object for the pleasure of someone else. I will continue to march on in anger until I too regain my rightful place in society. Until I will wear what I like, speak how I feel and act how I please without stereotypes and conventions constantly placed onto me, then I see no reason why this anger should subside.

I am an angry black woman at the borderlines of mad-ville. I am angry at history, the genesis of these universal laws. I am also angry at these traditional ties that bind us to outdated doctrines of our sexuality and femininity. Principles that hold our societies and us back from progressing as a people and allowing our minds to evolve as nature had intended. 

My anger is provoked by backward minds of slaves driven by systems that have existed since the beginning of time. I am angry at the past that returns to repeat itself in the now and will again revisit us in future times only because we are too lazy to learn from the mistakes that history has made. 

 

Even America's First Lady has been accused of being an Angry Black Woman

I am angry at you because you sit on your bosom, content with your state of ambivalence. I am angry at me for even though I carry these truths I still revert to silent spaces where my and your stories are devoured by nonchalant attitudes. I am angry at mother for even in her pain she could have held on to ensure the joy of her offspring. I am angry at daddy because he abandoned his little girl for the world and its materials. I am angry at the men that I once loved because in moments of induced endorphins they promised me paradise and gold yachts, multiple lifetimes of happiness. I am angry at you the sister that we share a bond with, for I confided in you because I believed in you yet you took me for a fool, went behind my back and made me your enemy. 

I am angry because it makes me happy. This anger is a place I call home, I find my being through it and my voice finds command in its streaks. My righteous anger gives me joy; I sleep better at night knowing that my discomfort with the human race consciously worries me. I stay angry because I am born black. I stay angry because I am born a woman. I remain angry because I am bit by the curse of double oppression. It’s due to these injustices that I will not change my ways. 

I continue to be angry because it’s a feeling I cannot get comfortable with. I find pleasure in my anger because it moves me to think, it moves me to question the so called inevitable, it moves me to act for the betterment of my kind. And for a tomorrow where Angry Black Women stand to be heard and understood. To be embraced and rocked back to love. 

If it means that we start teaching them young- that apathy and dogma should not be tolerated

So on behalf of my black angry sisters. Lets bask in this anger, seize it...because a thousand angry women are bound to break systematic chains in a world where freedom of self is not yet free. 

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution....

Silver Spoons and Gratitude Moments

 ---We not only make room for the disappointment and despairs of this life we also tolerate, acknowledge and accept them as a worthy part of life. We not only take this pain that penetrates through our souls but we also re-shuffle it to create stories on which to base our personal growth. We not only struggle, we persevere. We not only hurt but we remain agents that keep hope alive.   
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Forgive me. I am not the type of writer that uses highly emotive titles for the psychological blackmailing of anyone. Do not misinterpret me, there is absolutely nothing wrong with this style of writing-I appreciate it; I am just not a scholar to it. I am more of a personal writer, one that prefers to search into self and soul through writing. I am an abstract writer- I study literature and so through how I write, I try at most to replicate the sort I find resonance with.

So dear Reader, I hope you understand when I ask for your forgiveness today for I could not resist the urge to emotionally cave you in. I blinked once and it turns out in that swift blink of an eye, Life has happened, bits of faeces have exploded, hit the ceiling and my thought fan cannot stop blowing the stench my way. 

I have lived, I have loved and laughed and at some intervals, I have conquered, but never have I been this scared. Never has the reality of life’s uncertainties dawned on me the way it has today and not in this lifetime has this daunting feeling of helplessness reigned so supreme over me. I feel I have reached my port of exit where looking back only brings back memories, happy memories that find my tear sack over flowing. 

It is not that I feel I have done enough, no. It is that I fear I will never do enough. A new peak of inadequacy has withered away all the strength I once had gathered and every last bit of the hope that I assembled throughout the years of my convenient life struggle. You see reader, I like to bite more than I do chewing, I am infatuated with the idea of struggle. Pain. I am fascinated by stories of heroes and heroines who conquered through the harsh flames of torture and abuse- the reality- not so much. 

As I have asked of you and will continue to do so, be patient with me reader. I have only just discovered this journey into self- the strengths, and weaknesses that ultimately mold my resistance into being are now more evident than ever. So I have come back to this place as a final resort, I have come back here as an attempt to clear my head, I have come back to this temple to find solace.  I ask for all the help available to help spring me out of this well of depression that seems to be looming by.

Reader… my juncture of misery has awakened the empathy in me. It has forced me to question why I am not the girl that got raped the other night? It's kept me awake all night wondering why the victim bullet missed me in the line of orphans who fill up our societies. I can't embrace my blessings this morning for guilt has found its way back to my heart and asked why I was spared when hiv swept away the parents of these street kids we are so quick to condemn and label as pariahs. I am scared because this lap of luxury has gotten me too comfortable with knowing that choice comes in abundance for me. I am confronted by a flood of shame, my nerves bundle up at the thought of this silver spoon that I still suckle on.    

This silver spoon that now begins to rust has stirred up a panic attack at the thought of the consequences I inevitably face. I am left with an attitude of gratitude as I hop down memory lane and realize the blessings that I've been clothed with in all the years of my life. 

It is this reality of life that is now staring me in the face- the nature of its unpredictability- that cause hard tears to flow from a heart that has not wept in ages. It is this hand of God that touches me once more to remind me that nothing should ever be taken for granted and that, that happiness is never guaranteed. 

Fear. Like its counterparts- struggle, pain, misery, agony.... act as catalysts of understanding. Understanding of gratefulness,  a world that is bigger than you and the trails and tribulations that you encounter along your path to make you all the more appreciative of all the blessings poured unto us.

Smiles, Heart Beats and All That Jazz (Let I Dance)

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---Let I dance to the music queued in my thoughts. Let I dance. Let I dance along to the call of the Universe. Let I dance. Let I dance like today is my last and tomorrow is but a dream that I will never live out. Let I dance---

Everywhere I go and every heart I touch, I make sure I leave something that no one will ever dispose of because they can’t get enough of. Everywhere I go- everyone I see and every heart I have had the privilege to touch, a simple smile has been all I have left.

Everyday, every hour, for at least a second I smile for my heart beats; I smile and I make heart beats. I smile to give thanks, I smile in gratitude. I smile so much, in early days I did it more than I spoke, gave momma frights thinking she had a smiling mime for a child.  

This has become a lifelong habit, I feel it’s a predisposition that I have lost all control over, an inheritance from an African ancestor that now rests in their peace but has left me with a lifetime worth of smiles. Beautiful, character filled smiles, rainbow wide and bright but however remains the sweetest taboo.

You see now, I come from a people that find it hard to crack a single smile, my people they float in wells of depression and find comfort in states of regression, they gloat of peoples failures and toast to the weaknesses of others. My smiling heart belongs to a city that never rests for the wrong reasons, in this city of small town hustlers is a public that hardly smiles unless it is at the expense of someone else’s despair.

Be the Loner with the Smile...

Not only so but I belong to a culture where smiling is considered the weakness of a fool, where silence and anger are the norm. A culture that has left me reminiscing about the glory that is now gone, days when happiness wasn’t looked down upon. I’m religious about hip-hop, an era inspired genre where no season is ever dedicated to happiness. In this culture named hip hop is nothing else but raw negativity, rappers and heads walking around in side lip frowns, looking like they just caught a face-full of sun- embracing calamities, believing in sorrow- an empty tomorrow, praising struggles- grasping rage in abundant bundles.

But still I smile. Although I am born to a place that still wrestles with spirits of pessimism, inducted into a culture of misery vultures that honor and celebrate glooms-and-dooms. I go on ahead and I smile. In the midst of this cheerful complex, I maintain this smile. I contain this smile in the hope that it will become a contagious smile- that someone might catch it and never heal from it, go on to spread this smile sickness until they all start to commend it the same way they continue to do with these terminal sicknesses.

A little bling to the smile...

So until this cab driver greets me with a smile every other day, until these shop assistants act pleased in my presence, until this petrol attendant sings their words to me, until this brother cracks a funny punch in his rhymes, until this security guard pretends to laugh at my dry jokes, until this secretary lady reacts to my compliments, until this mother tells me a heart warming story while she wraps up the poone I just bought from her, until I meet a patient in a doctors room who spreads ‘positivity’ through their words and until I give out a coin to a street kid whose face shapes their life canvas in bright and colorful works of art…then allow me to turn up the tempo to my smile and dance.

Until bliss is personified in every single one of us then let I dance to the rhythms of the tales I tell. Let I dance to the stories that I speak, read and write. Let I dance to clouds of encouragement and tunes of paradise. Let I bask in this ecstasy. Let I dance to the beat of my heart. Let I dance.

*extracts from When Hip Hop Was Fun as performed by In-Q on Def Poetry have been used in these writings 

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...

Ho na le likoata tsa Basotho!

 ---Lesotho my beginning, Lesotho my ending! I will love these mountains with their deep-etched valleys. These green pastures where natures beauty overflows. Lesotho my beginning, Lesotho my ending! I will love you and your people, these brothers and sisters that reside in my mothers land---

This is an observation piece. Getting sometime out from your own people gives one some perspective, it broadens ones view on life and enlarges your frame of reference. It allows you to experience other cultures, their values and belief systems but most importantly it allows you to benchmark the progress of your own on a much wider scale.

For the past few months I have been on an observation trip, I have put my psychology cap on and been studying the characteristics of the Basotho people. I have been listening in on conversations I shouldn’t be, watching people I have never met and spoken to individuals I hardly look at twice. In these months, I have analyzed my people and although I am not done with this project of mine as yet, I have reached my conclusion…and it is that- Ho na le Basotho ba likoata!!

And by koata I do not refer to this term in the traditional blanket wearing, hit-stick carrying sense. I use the term ‘koata’ in the broadest sense as you will find out once you read on. I used to think likoata ke batho ba likoto le melamu, likobo hara mecheso kapa batho ba hae koana, boy was I wrong.

I have come to understand and even accept that there are men and women of the highest calibre who occupy the most prominent positions in this country empa e le likoata. There is also a flock of graduates let out by some of the top institutions who walk around these streets in all the bokoata they can master.

Hee Lesotho le tletse likoata hleng beso! Ho na le likoata in the public sector who feel that we are at their mercy for asking to be served with a smile, likoata that feel like they are doing us the public a favour by actually doing their jobs. Ho na le likoata that check in at work at 8am everyday and knock off at 5pm but would never produce a work plan, progress or monthly report on any given day. Koata tsena are the same ones that will piss on your hair if you dare interfere with their game of solitaire or hearts, the same kind that will turn you away in a line ha u ka fihla ten minutes before lunch asking for help. Hela, for the sake of your sanity, I warn you in kindness fellow Mosotho oa heso to stay clear of koata tsena cause they master the art of sulkiness and are quick to drain the energy out of you.

Bathong ho na le likoata Lesotho mona! Then there are the ones that sit in the private sector and franchise shops acting like they’ve made it in life. Ho na le koata tse lulang Times mane, Litaleng  kapa eona Café 72 from Monday to Monday picking on girls or waiting to get hit on- talking about how well off they are or how they only roll with rich men. Tsena tsona li koata are the type to drive a LAND Rover yet they have a LANDlord. Bari tsena tsona hee are the kind that show-off by any means necessary, they have credit and bills that run all the way from Thaba Bosiu and past Menkhoaneng but will still maintain their image around Maseru hangouts. Koata tsena are quick to spot, they are the ones with the car keys dangling on their fingers and phones all around the waist lines. Ke ba mona with the tightest dresses and highest of heels, glossy blood red lips and weaves getting flicked from side to side. These ones speak of how elite they are, they look down on the rest of my people, if you’re not a part of them then koata ke uena to them. This kind of koata knows all the expensive alcohol names and will only sip on Henney, Chivas Regal or Johnny Black cause they are too legit to be drinking little boy liquor.

Beso ke re Lesotho le patetsoe ke lipoko-poko. Koata tsa Maseru ke tse fetang tsa ‘Masemousu. Terotsoana ena ea heso e tletse mahipi ka li colour blocking le li accent tse mona tse kang motho o lutsoe ke sekhohlela se sa feleng, ma pantsula ka li dickies le all star tse lits’ila le li kool kids ka li nerd glasses and personalized t-shirts, acting like they run this town.

And then there was koata tsa banna who are stuck in archaic times where women were objects of their affection and served no better purpose. Tsena tsona likoata are the kind to go around raping little babies and elderly women. These are the ones that abuse our women, kill our women and shamelessly speak down on them. Psychopaths, who feel nothing and do nothing to better the state of our nation. Bathong! Hole tsena would probably rape men as well if they don’t already…uena hee you are a target because of your sexuality, you need not mention you are either gay or lesbian around them cause they will come for you claiming to heal you from the ‘devils’ that ‘possess you’.

 

Jonna ka mokhoa oo koata tsa heso li leng ngata ka teng, I will never finish. Fela ho na le tse ling tsa bo ‘m’e, tse mona tse bitter. Dear God, ho na le bo ‘m’e le bo ausi ba bitter hleng! The kind that does not want to see anyone succeed more than them or be better achievers than they are. Koata tsena are the ones that spread the gossip and love to hate, they are quick to judge and will be the first to tell you about your nasty ass uncut toe nails or your oddly shaped nose…they know your every move and are at the forefront of wishing you’d fail in life. Tseke-tseke tsena tsona hee ha li ts’abe le ho u loea ke bolila bona bo ba ts’oereng. Ke ba mona ba ratang li ‘haters’ always quick to give a shout out to them and speak about how they are thankful for those haters cause they make them better in life. Bana bona will ask for the price tags of those shoes you got on and will make you feel like a fool for dressing in bargain items.

E be joale ho na le meqhaka e mona e ratang bokuli. Is it the actual being sick part they love or is it how they seek pity? I do not know. I personally think this kind sits at the top of the likoata hierarchy. They are the ones who will start by saying “Ke tlo ts’oara ke sefuba hakae fela” and then when the bed binding flu comes they talk about “Ache ‘na ebe hobaneng ke ratoa ke sefuba tje?” This tribe of likoata enjoys pity parties and will drag you down with them if you are not too careful…they enjoy being miserable and will always see the negative in any situation; they never seize to complain about how horrible everything is and how they would do a better job than anyone else. Oe! Koata tse!

Nke ke ka qeta hoba joale haeso Lesotho koata li ngata. Le ha ho le joalo, I still love some of them hoba ke tsa heso. I still appreciate the flavor they bring into my life and those around them and I still pray that batla sokoloha bokoateng bona ba bona. Lenna ke le tjena ke koata ea Lesotho, a proud one-e mona e nahanang e tseba haholo. Ke mpa ke its’ilisa ka hore haeso ke habo likoata.   

Until next post,

Africa Rising, peace & Revolution 

Dear Mr. Afrikaaner Man....

---I come from a hurting people. Still. My people have risen from a history so sensitive and so deeply-rooted in inequality, we only ask that we be given the space to deal with our emotions-rightfully. To deal with the pain, the hurt and the anger. Before there was reconciliation, did we we lash out?---

 

Dear Mr. Boer Man,

I have no business writing this to you but you see wherever I go I seek peace and maybe, just maybe this may be some form of closure for me.

Mr. Afrikaaner Man I do not know you, not personally anyway, I only know of you, I have heard stories of your encounters with my ancestors, many of which have passed on, but I’m sure you would not be bothered much about that because from what I hear, you have never cared for anyone but yourself. Oh how selfish you have been made out to be Mr. Afrikaaner Man, I can only hope and pray that the stories I have heard of you and your people are only that- stories. But still I doubt that very much.

At this point, I know what you are probably thinking, die idiot moors my tyd, at this moment you would rather be in your big ass farm, shouting away at you buss boys and girls for getting the crop lines all twisted, right? In this instance you are now turning purple in the face wondering why this letter addressed to you is in English when it’s not even your first language. Right now you might be at the brink of tearing this letter away because it has absolutely no relevance to you, but before you do…

Before you do, let me clarify this… I do not hate you. I have no grounds on which to hold any grudges, I have no scores to settle, no reason to seek any kind of revenge, as a matter of fact, I have no reason sitting here writing this out like you might actually give it the time of day should it find its way into your arms. Mr. Afrikaaner Man, although I do not hate you, I cannot stand you, excuse the brutality of my honesty but in this space it is never compromised.  My instinct tells me you almost certainly do not care but somehow you may wonder why I can’t stand you…well for what may seem like obvious reasons but still, it may not be so blatant to others.

Mr. Baas Man, you are a cruel and cold creature. As heartless as they come, you have taken my people and subjected them to nothing less than animals, made them slaves of your own, you have robbed my ancestors in broad day light and as if that was not enough, you went on ahead to ensure that they go through a lifetime of suffering. You have monopolized this land that once belonged to everyone that was born to it and now you have made everything your own…you have driven grown men and women out of their homes and into your backyards, have them working like slaves for close to nothing. Not only have you ripped grown men of their dignity but you have also had the satisfaction of stripping them of their cultural pride, their language and their origins. You have taken my people and programmed them to think like you, speak like you, be like you and act like you!

Mr. Boer Man, I’m really trying to be politically correct here, to put things mildly, your aura induces a feeling of great discomfort, you know…one I would probably get if I were to ever find myself locked in a sty with a bunch of swine’s. But then again this should come as no surprise to you as you know all too well about treating my people like animals, your only shock right now may be why unlike many of them am I not kissing your mighty high, khakhi shorts wearing buttock.  

Fortunately I was raised to respect those that respect me back and not those that forcefully beg it out of me. I was not raised to obey bullshit laws without first questioning them, I raised myself into a brave heart hence I have learned about the struggles of my ancestors and have felt every last thrash to their flash, every chain that held them captive and every demeaning phrase you spat out at them, I felt it like I was there, it hurt my bone, my soul and my core the same way it did them, probably more so because I can’t take back their suffering, I can't scream on their part or curse at you in moments of heated rage or angry outbursts. Mr. Afrikaaner Man I cannot do any of that because I seek my peace, not from you or your people but within myself and in my people. I’m tired of replaying the scenes of brutality that you exposed them to in my head, I no longer want these tears rolling down uncontrollably caused by feelings of guilt over situations I had absolutely no control over. Your past obscenities stop controlling my thought train today!  

Make no mistake, this is no call for reconciliation, unlike those that came before me and after your victims of oppression, I still think it’s too soon. The wounds are still too fresh and ripe; we as a people have not healed yet. We need to come to terms, get some closure and at least try to move forward as a people before we start forgiving. I embrace anger; it helps with the healing process. I don’t expect you to either care or understand the fact that I am still angry but I forgive you, for the sake of peace. My peace.

So many things I’m still unhappy about and so many situations that my people still find themselves in that cause a hard lump in my throat but oh how therapeutic it has been to write this out to you. How this has elevated my emotional stability. I do not care for your thoughts on it, only that I wrote it and that this tension I have held has now escaped me into the Universe.

Because until we deal with these unresolved emotions, find peace within ourselves, then our understanding of forgiveness will always carry out elements of fear.  

Regards,

An Angry Black Woman  (1977)

 

Until next post....

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...

The Lady that Used to Write....

---"Writers write, for yourself. Writers write. Not for instant grat but just to write. Write on"---
@SistersWhoWrite

I once knew of a lady who used to write. This lady...I remember her in all her glory, she was my sunshine, my own living goddess- she wore on her, the brightest smile and when she spoke, her opinion was always firm. Her fist? Clenched tight while she held it sky high. Oh how I loved this lady who used to write. Write stories of blue skies and sunshine's, she wrote of children roaming freely in these streets, of mothers and fathers who led black nations to victory, of black revolution and an empowered people. She wrote of rainy days and green grasses, of beautiful jazz melodies that awoke each one of our love senses.

My smile perfectly carves at the thought of this Lady that wrote. 

She was my best friend but she never knew this. See I never got the opportunity to holler at this Lady that jotted isms and schisms on wrinkled pieces of paper. I was far away, lost in lands where she would take me to and then leave me there. The Lady that wrote took me on travels. She knew of places non-existent to me, of deep seas and the highest mountains. We walked the world together, hand in hand living out our dreams and building memories in our memories.

But I loved this lady who wrote for me and for mine and for ours.

I loved her cause she knew of me. When I read her stories of struggle I found myself in her. We never met but even in these different paths we chose we lived like Siamese. The lady that played with syllables and toyed with words to evoke this feeling in me that died so long ago but I still hopelessly long for left me with a lifetime of confusion and pain.

When this Lady died. I died with her.


I still long for her company, how her gentle voice breathed itself from those lone pages and into my soul, igniting fires of positivity. The Lady that used to write went astray, she up and left and echoed no warning signs. She left me raged, shredded and in pieces. She does not know that I breathed her words, her tales inspired me, to me they were life. It did not matter what subject choice she wrote about but what I cared for was that she wrote. I had become loyal to her craft, it was my best friend. But as easily as she had breathed life into me, she sucked it right out.


Rumour says Lady stopped her story cause no one heard her.

But not only is this untrue, its also unfair to those that found peace of mind between her perfectly ranged vowels and consonants. I was one of them and I know I speak for others as well when I say that the Lady that wrote was selfish. She wrote her heart out and then she stopped. Stopped feeding our hearts with stories of hope and inspiration. And that killed not only us, but also our nation. When the candle that brightened our days and kept our flames afloat burned out, we were left in darkness. Even those who wanted to write their stories down themselves seemed lost.

I need you to remember one thing.

So. To you, the lady that writes. That writes from the heart and writes of her heart- breaks, trips, leaps or smiles. The lady that writes only of truth and whose words depict the days we lead in these dusty streets. Our lives portrayed in your every title of the songs that you write in speech. I plead that you continue to write. To document the histories of our people and to predict the coming of their freedom. To tell us of your lonely days and about better times of reaped joy.


Writers write indeed. Not for gratification, not to prove a point or to please anyone but themselves. Writers write because they're angry, because they're happy and because they cannot afford to be selfish. Writers are therapists that you pay nothing and go nowhere to consult; They are the stones of support that we lean on for escapism into lives that seem better than the ones we lead. They are the visionaries that paint for us the hopes of a new a day, a new era.

Yes. Writers write. But writers also Heal. And build. So Write on Sister.

Live. Be inspired. Then You Write Sister!

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...