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...

 

 

I am Every Woman!

---We need to speak up, raise our voices because what we have to say needs to be heard. Stereotypes must be reversed and our presence rightfully restored. Woman, I will not only speak on your behalf until my mouth runs dry but I will also speak with you, to you and about you. Because you are graceful, you are delicate and you deserve to be you---

God knows that next to mother Afrika, women are the closest favourite to my heart. I love these creatures. I love them all day and I love them all night, I love them intensely and I am pretty sure that one day I will lie in a casket and I will love them right into the afterlife. Women are symbolic of very many things; they are to me what nature is, quiet yet rowdy, mostly unpredictable but somewhat familiar in their presence. Women mean the world to me, they are like the universe in which we attract our fate, they have this undying love that draws no boundaries and they shine bright, like shooting stars.

These are momma natures chosen nurturers whose smiles can heal broken hearts, whose soft caress can abate any physical pain; the words of woman can build just as much as they can damage….which is exactly why I am here, on this page, searching for words that could aptly describe her, words that she may read, understand and safely tuck away into her minds maze. I am here to speak about woman, and to speak to her, I have brought these words along, not only for company’ sake but I am hoping that today we can build. Build through word and literature, through poetical verses and scriptures. I need to build, I want to build and I must start with who I am and who I am is woman. I am every woman, I am my mother, and I am her daughter, a sister, granddaughter, aunt, niece and sister confidante.

I am indeed every woman. I will not tell you that I am Assata, I am Afeni, I am Coretta, Betty and Winnie. I am Graca, I am Harriet, I am Nambitha and I am also Lillian. Hell, I am even Khanyi, I am Nicky, I am Janet and I am Oprah, I exude confidence, sexiness, intelligence and I am perfectly enough for me and to me. I have no fear or worries because societal pressure does not weigh down on me the way it would if I was just one woman, but you see, I am not one woman, I am every woman and I radiate the beauty, the strength and the courage of ten thousand women. I am every single woman that has ever lived and will ever live, I am Eve, I am her last born daughter and I am every woman between this bond.

We are women and therefore our fight shall be for our own. We are women and so where we go titles shall follow, we will be skanks, whores, bitches and ratchets. We will be gold diggers and opportunists, we will also be enablers, naïve and stupid but one thing we will not seize to be is women. And that should be our pride. Being woman is the pride of woman.

And for the longevity of our pride I am here telling you, my fellow earth sisters to woman up. I am here preaching the sidelined principles of feminism that our male dominated society has put on hold while we stay second best. I am here to try and rectify years of second hand oppression. Hear me when I say to you, you are beautiful and you deserve it all, you are Gods design and angelic adorns your being, woman you are powerful beyond measure and your words were designed to build. To build yourself, to build communities and to build our men… the main sources of the pains we endure; the heartbreaks and tear stains we inch through and insecurities we deal with are the very same ones we wake up to cheer on and encourage regardless.

Daughters of the world through, lets re assemble these notions of feminism and fit the pieces how they suit us. They cannot define what we stand for unless they know the pains of stiletto heels and the bunions that come the day after. They cannot dictate to us the terms of our submission unless they can usher life into this world. Until the day they understand the tears we have cried from our joys and pains, the hot flashes, the swings in moods and the ocean like love we possess then they have no grounds on which to spit feminism in the face.

I am by no means undermining the role of men in our lives, but I simply point out that feminism is no more radical than some of the rules of submission we are subjected to. Feminism is entirely healthy and should be encouraged, unless it is then rape culture, women abuse and harassment are issues that we will be fighting ‘against’ for centuries to come. I hate that the concept of such a beautiful term has been stretched out and re-arranged to mean stubbornness, rebellion and insensitivity of women towards the needs of men.

Unitl next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...

I Lost my First Love

---When you allow self to go through periods where life schedules rule and ruin the desires of your heart, consequences can only be abrupt and eruptive as is the nature of all chaos. Clutter has a way of making what matters the most seem less important than the debris of confusion it creates---

This year has taught me yet another lesson in life, as we grow into new passions and find new interests, its essential that we cultivate the already existing ones otherwise it would be pointless to have created them to begin with if we are to lose touch with them at the first sign of new loves presenting themselves to us. Hear me out; I’m only trying to make sense of my own state of mind….

The point I am trying to make is that one should never let go of what they truly love and I only dish out this advice to you because I am hurt I have lost my first love. You see I am fickle, indifferent and unsure of self at times, I am a beautiful bottle of confusion. I am not like the kid who grew up knowing exactly who they are and what their purpose in life was. I, unlike that kid chose a path of self-discovery instead of finding myself and with every layer unearthed is a side to me I never thought would exist. It’s an amazing feeling, coming into your own, experiencing life as you once wished you would but it, just like all the good things in life does not come without a little side damage.

Yes I have evolved into a beautiful, intelligent concrete rose, a rose whose curiosity cannot be quenched and therefore continues to tread on a trail of knowledge. I have grown like a yellow rose, stunning; with petals so rich, thick and smooth that I have long forgotten the scratches and marks that saw me grow out of concrete. I have neglected the things that mattered most to me and because of that I have lost my first love. I have traded in the one person that saw me through hell and back for political insight, an inquisitive mind and all kinds of ‘mature acts’. I have turned my back on the one true love who’s words once soothed my lonely heart and wiped away my saddened tears and I have joined movements that force my heart to turn to stone and would curse me if I dared shed a tear. I have become someone else and I am too deep in that I cannot revert to simpler days when it was just me and my first love.

I have gone and gotten educated, tasted the bitter sweetness of intellectual conversing and I have found difficulty in untangling myself out of this maze of high pitched debates and college-y talks so much that I no longer recognize the one that I once truly loved. This person that has taken over and has become the new me has found new channels and avenues when it comes to the people, this person no longer engages with the people like she once did instead she has built a pedestal where she speaks for them and not with them, you tell me what the purpose of speaking on behalf of the people is when you are no longer on the ground listening to what they have to say and what their most pressing needs are.

Today I heard my first love speak, yesterday I almost listened and last week I could only reminisce as he persuaded me back to the love we once had. The thing is I can no longer be bothered, my circles are different now, we speak a whole other language and try I may but the passion is lost and I can’t seem to find it.

I miss this love of my life but somehow our connection is no longer as strong as it used to be, our signals are no longer in par and truth is he has also changed. I can’t find him…yes I am lost in a web of new loves but none match up to this love of mine. We once spoke in similar tones and finished one another’s sentences, we made memories in crowded clubs and sunny parks, we were once inseparable while he taught me everything that I now know.

And its funny how I thought my love was the one who’d started tripping  but I now realize that I am not who I used to be, our truce was to always be rebels but now I’m rebelling a little differently. I’m picking up my voice and I’ve left him somewhere lingering in the background, baited breath, anticipating my return. Whether I will ever return is an uncertainty and with this new found love for ‘things’ who’s to say our union will ever be the same again.   

Even so, I wish back the days when nothing or no one could ever mess with our bond. I have lost my first love and nothing will ever be the same again without their presence in my life. I have stopped listening altogether and even our old conversations don’t boil my blood anymore, I no longer replay them in moments of anger, of happiness, laughter, sadness or even insecurity because I have allowed my new passions to take over.

I Miss Hip Hop and I can only hope that one day we will re-ignite our love because not only did I once love her, I still do but like queen Assata once said; we are grown up now and its all so complicated when you dig someone.  

I Miss You Hip Hop. You are and will always be my first Love.

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution....

I Will Love Afrika ™

---Afrika you were my beginning and you will undoubtedly be my ending. Queen Afrika, the womb from which I was ushered from, the land whose soils clothe my heart with tenacity. I sing a song of hope; I sing a song of light. I sing your praises and I see you in a new dawn. Afrika you were my beginning and you will undoubtedly be my ending---

My beginning....My ending 

Below is a piece entitled "I will Love Afrika" which I have been playing with all night at the expense of my sleep. My love for this place flows deep and can only grow stronger from here.The only mother I have ever known and the woman whose breasts I have suckled from since my inception. Herein is an ode to a place where the beauty and the ugly of the world are merged and can only be detached through magnifiers. I chose to taint mine with visions of butterflies that roam freely, with happiness, equality and an educated youth that determines its own tomorrow.

I will Love Afrika,

For the restless spirits of it’s off spring

For troubled pasts of its tribal groups

For these soils that have dried up my ancestral blood

For pain filled memories that were never eased

For dark clouds of colonialism that never ceased

For surviving the gluttonous state of all oppression

I will Love Afrika,

For shaping the books of the worlds history

Through the lengthy lines of royalty it has bore

For battles fought with bare hands and few weapons

For the reign of Makeda, our Queen of Sheba

The wisdom of woman, of her mystery unsolved 

 For King Moshoeshoe, mora Mokhachane

Naledi ea bosiu, ntlo kholo Menkhoaneng

The father of the Basotho nation, founder of a peaceful land

A land where my people were shadowed by the gloom ea Lifaqane

When survival mechanisms insisted on cannibalism

For Lepoqo’s teachings that still ring true today

That "Peace is the Mother of nations"

 Yes I will Love Afrika,

For the battles of uShaka, the Zulu warrior

For Insandlwana, a pride filled initiative

For standing our ground and fighting for our own

For Seretse Khama, the son of independence

To the fierce Mutato the Great
For Sankara's re-written notions of leadership
By humbly and heartily serving Burkina Faso

For the positive actions of Nkrumah 

An icon to pan-Afrikanism, a gift of our liberation

For his and Sobukwe's contributions to the Pan Afrikan Congress 

Sons whose ideologies painted a canvas that depicted freedom at last

I said I will Love Afrika,

And all her descendants

The children of my mother, our siblings in solidarity

For the insights of Shabazz on who the real enemy always was 

And letting us know that for being Black we should be Proud

For Marcus Garvey, a black star who called us all to unity 

His vision of an undefeated nation of blaques

For Huey Newton, a black panther roaring in anger

Of a two faced system that preached integration and practiced segregation

For Dr. King who preached the revolution,

Anticipated days when colour held no barriers on our progression

For Harriet Tubman, the underground star of the night

A true master of the anti slavery movement

I will Love Afrika,

For the turmoil it has been responsible for precipitating

I will love it with all its self inflicted conflict

Sundiata's strikes at his fellow brothers

The Aminian theme noted in every chapter of our every country

For the misruling of Idi Amin, Jean Bedell Bokasso and Robert Mugabe

The ravages they caused and left their countries floating in 

For its rulers who suffer from megalomania 

Who would rather die than to forfeit their power

I will Love Afrika ,

For even in its state of a freedom complex

This land still has birthed my nature

It has molded my being and knows of my struggles

This is the only place I will ever call home

Where I share similar stories and sentiments 

With those that came to battle with me

This land where momma nurtured me towards greatness

Where real learning is never in congregated classrooms

But rather in street corners and folk tales that have no records 

I will Love Afrika,

It is where my journey commences

It is where my story continues to unfold

And it is where my bones and my soul will be rested.

I will Love Afrika!

" But late is never a bad start in
Africa my beginning
And Africa my ending
No easy way to freedom...

I was there I will die there
In Africa my beginning
And Africa my ending
Lets do something..."

  - Ingoapele Madingaone

Winnie Mandela...The Hero that Went Unsung

---"I am the product of the masses of my country and the product of my enemy"---Winnie Madikizela Mandela

The reason I love Rhodes is primarily due to the fact that I learn something new everyday. Literally, not a day goes by without new insights presenting themselves to me. So here we were, having lunch when one of the most enlightening conversations I have had all year springs up. Allow me to paint it for you... 

-Scenario-

Kebabetswe: So have you decided on whether you are going to enter the 'Educate to Liberate' poetry competition?

Madingane: I'm still not too sure hey. The only 'woman of topic' I am remotely familiar with is Graca Machel.

Kebabetswe: Okay, so why don't you write about mam Graca then?

Madingane: Nah...I don't know, I don't see it, you see me I'm more a Winnie Mandela kind of girl!

Lethabo: Oh come on. That murderer? How can you even?

Madingane: Come again...a what? Call her what you may but I happen to think what Winnie did for South Africa is truly a revolutionary act. So you say she killed someone, apartheid was war and in a war people are bound to die.

Lethabo: Yes but not if 'people' is a young black boy whose entire death she orchestrated. 

And the story goes on and on and on but a few things have happened here. Firstly I have been caught dead in the middle of an ignorance exposure attack, secondly I have stumbled upon a very interesting revelation, that I idolize an apparent murderer -at this stage I had no insight into the inhuman acts of violence that Nomzamo has been accused of since the country she fought for saw the light of democracy- and lastly I have tasked myself with a mini research on the life of Winnie Madikizela and tracking the record of her infidelities to her husband and her people.    

The search rapidly begun and the search, just as speedily fizzled out. The reason is that my opinion of Winnie Madikizela before I knew of her 'dark' past is the same opinion I hold after finding out that she allegedly kidnapped and murdered 14-year old ANC activist Stompie Moeketsi (Sepei) back in 1988. The same respect I had for Winnie before I heard of her corruption dealings and brutal attacks on the youth of Soweto has not shifted an inch. Yes I will catch a lot slack for admitting to this but personally I happen to believe that the case of Winnie Madikizela’s controversies has been blown way out of proportion and to an extreme extent I even believe that this mother of our nation is a victim of a conspiracy set against her by the (then) ruling National Party.

We are all entitled to ours and mine is that it would be extraordinarily naive of me to believe that Winnie is only a victim and that she glows of innocence, of course not, but I am saying that a lot does not add up for me, I watched the wounded families during the Truth and Reconciliation periods in South Africa, I saw them cry, hurt and point fingers but I also saw Winnie, not a flicker of remorse and so that led to my thinking that this woman is tired of trying to tell her version of the story only to be flipped aside like hers was a struggle in vain. It saddens me that a woman that went through so much heartache and misery has been subjected to nothing less than a liar, a murderer and a burden to the society that she helped free. 

I am reminded of an article I read by Esther Armah on Neslon Mandela's birthday, this open letter was addressed to Winnie and  the opening line read as follows...

"It is not that I refuse to celebrate your ex's birthday. It is that I do not know yours".   

Miss Armahs theory is that as a black people, who are descendants of oppression we need to serve ourselves with emotional justice, a term she coined herself in a plead to the black nation on addressing, discussing dealing with, and healing from the "legacy of untreated trauma that affects us globally". 

This brilliant concept is unfortunately one we easily look past down in these shores. The idea of emotional justice as interpreted by our people is that the black majority forgive the white minority while we all pretend to shake hands, fake smiles, call it a truce and start afresh--clean slate and all. But our understanding of it is flawed beyond repair because we are not at the root of the problem, mending the damage that was done, we are instead concealing it by pretending that we are fine and all is well. But I disagree, like Miss Madikizela herself states, she is a constant reminder of a past that we are trying so hard to forget. 

You see what Esther Armah is saying is that we forgave a whole race of people that did us wrong for years yet we turn our hearts cold at the thought of forgiving one of our own. We chose to drag Winnie Madikizela Mandela’s name through a concoction of hatred and disgust at a time when our hands should be in one another's clasps as we move forward and lead this continent to better times. What’s to happen when the incidents of one woman have driven an entire nation to dialogues that cannot be rewritten in favor of the contributions of this apartheid opponent? Why have we instead opted to replace these narratives of revolution with negation and subjugation? Is it not a dreadful shame that the calamities of apartheid's climax still haunt us to this day?  

When is the day that we shall turn a crisp page with nothing but forgiveness of self and our people as its title? This irony is daunting- that we forgave the 'enemy' the minute Mandela asked that we do yet here we are, twenty four years later and Winnie Madikizela Mandela's name still leaves a bitter, angry taste in our mouths.

I am by no means condoning her actions--if indeed there is any truth to them. But I do give rise to questions that need some thought and analysis. How do we move forward in strides of peace and authentic reconciliation when our hearts are settled in an era we are so quick to label as 'dead and gone', or is it really?

Let’s flash back to the times we boiled with anger and rage and start by forgiving ourselves, and then forgiving our brothers and sisters of the same struggle. Only then can we move on from a past that obstructs the progress of a true rainbow nation. I end this with a quote from Esther's letter that I believe captures the abstract of this piece....

  “I call this emotional justice - looking at the toll of injustice on who we become emotionally and how that legacy reaches from those past moments into our present and far into our future, demanding our attention...Forgiveness for me, like black love, is revolutionary. So, I waited to hear your ex ask black South African men and women to forgive themselves and each other for what they must have put themselves and their families through in order to navigate hostile apartheid waters and come out breathing. That didn't happen." 

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...

Take me back to 1976...

---“I want the war to be over, the hate to be over. I want to come home to kindness. Freedom is just the beginning, think bigger…the prison door opens; the prisoner walks free, what then?”--- Whoopi Goldberg

Technically it is still exam time but I have given in, the cherry has popped and I can’t resist the urge to steal some time out to this tranquil space of peaceful rants and mental riots.



The Youth of 1976 toiled in struggle....



I just watched the critically acclaimed South African movie Sarafina which was set in the apartheid regime. Forget the fact that I watched this movie over ten times in my teenage years and focus on the fact that today it made me cry. I’m sitting typing this with tears welled in my eyes, my spirit replete with pride and my heart with anger, I’m sitting here but my thoughts are back in ’76. Right now I have escaped my own self and I am Steve Biko sitting in the back of that police van enduring strike after fist after kick, right now I am no longer a 22 year old rolling in privileges, no sir, today I am Nelson Mandela as I sit at Robben Island, eyes feeding on the doors of my prison cell hoping to witness the chains come free, symbolizing the same for my people. Just for today, I am Lillian Ngoyi back in 1956, I am fed up of being denied my basic human rights and I am about to lead 20 000 women in a protest march to the Union Buildings in Pretoria. Nomhlanje I am Hector Pieterson cradled in the arms of my fellow blaque brother as he and my sister flee from the torment that will end up killing me. Just for today, for now, for this moment, I am struggle, I am pain, I am hurt and I am fed up.

Just for today; I am worried, I am scared, I am anxious about our future. Today I worry for the black mans peace, kaloku I wish back the rebel-hood of our ancestors, I am scared of how the story unfolds and I fear that we will remain trapped. I look around and I see shackles, I ask around and I still sense fear, I speak out loud, I scream, shout but I get hushed.

Now the prison cell has flung open and suddenly there was ‘peace’, our prisoners are set free and we are somewhere caught up in singing their praises and salutations so much that we forget that there is still a final lap to this so called freedom. Biko’s spirit went back home, his bones were rested and somehow we forgot. Mandela was released, he returned to us and so we felt the need to over glorify him, we named everything after him, streets, bridges, bays, universities, we gave his face to money. It all seems to have eluded the spheres of our minds and we sing a brand new song, the lyrics to Nkonyana Kandaba have slowly slipped away, a fedile mathata a Afrika because it is no longer tomorrow, it is today and freedom has come, right? No. Wrong.

These are the days where the only chant we know is “each man is on his own” and because of this, freedom will never come. So long as we waste the gift of our liberation on sparking new conflicts against one another. When in the dawn of democracy, the ANC is going at DA, the LCD taking jabs at the DC and when communists, liberalists and manipulate-ists are constantly on each others necks about one thing or another then my people will remain in abyss of poverty, illiteracy, ignorance, hiv/aids and ridiculously wide economic margins.

Take me back to those times because I do not want to be here, at a time where we are supposed to unite as Afrikans and rake away the forces that still keep us captive we would rather fight amongst ourselves, I want nothing to do with this era where a brown envelope is all it takes to buy our freedom, take me out of here and back to a time when fists were thrown in the air as a tool of empowerment not on one another in a club where a skhothane isn’t wearing shoes that are expensive enough to reserve him an ounce of respect from the useless ballots of his peers.

Bring back the days when enough was enough, where the people were afraid to speak but even more afraid to stay silent, I will gladly take a day that was filled with purpose, with drive and with a passion to save Afrika, a passion entrenched so far into the spirits of those we owe our freedom to that no amount of tjambok strikes or gun bullets would have stopped them. Re-introduce to us, the days of our fore fathers, where their peaceful nature was their own demise, I want nothing to do with this misery and strife between our own, what happened to the days when united we stood and divided we fell? I fail to comprehend the structures of this system that claims to be free yet is still so plagued with multiple social ills.

I cannot stand to be a part of a generation that will go down in the books of Afrikan history as the inventors of skhothane lifestyles, extreme corruption and the fatal death of ubuntu.

       

Beloved, come with me to the days when we were one and together we could accomplish anything, even the full emancipation of Africa.

 



So that the Youth of 2012 could do this.



Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...