The city people try too hard. Want love but do not know what it is. How do you blame them? There is no love in the city. They want happiness but they forgot how to smile.

It is not clear how I became a writer. There was no definitive moment. Growing up, I would journal, and also had stints trying rap and poetry. After all, where I come from there were no writers.

The name is familiar. The name is well known. The man is famous, a legend of some sort. For many things, his lifestyle, his style, his wives, controversy, music and politics. But what stands out the most is how unapologetic he was about his blackness and Africanness.

kasi romance / buy her a kota, tennis biscuits or some halls / just before you sneak into the backroom / hand above the skirt / ‘baby, i wont insert all of it’

It is 2016, thick in the midst of student protests. A poster is taped onto a white wall inside the Wits School of Arts, and what draws my attention are the bold letters IPHUPHO L’KA BIKO. I am intrigued, and I want to see this band of students who have bravely decided to use Biko’s name in a university that hates Black people.