Ramasela

Machoene Matlwa Untitled 2020-10-08 03:35:44

At the height of the night / When the sun sits highest in the sky / You can hear the cows and goats of the village bickering and howling / Everyone shuts their doors and switches off the fire

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Poem for Myesha

Mawethu Nkosana Nkolomba Untitled 2020-09-11 03:53:03

Poets do not die, / They flutter / militantly / Transposing eventualities / and acuity / death is alchemy / and range / it is paramountcy / Transcendence

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For Emmanuel “Scara - Black Jesus” Ngobese

Makhafula Vilakazi Untitled -0001-11-30 00:00:00

USonto umfun’eSunday School, Ilokoshe lim’fune 18 / USonto, uthi Jesu waseNazaretha, Ilokishi lithi Jesu waseSomhlolo / Lithi Scara mangubo, lithi Black Batho-batho, Jes’omnyama, Manyeu, Khaskethi, /Khamandane, Gudl’umkhonto, Nonjini, Mntungw’omnyana, Mangubo, Jezi Namba leveni, / Jes’o lang, o skraal nge-chiskop, Jes’omnyama ofana nobusuku, Black batho-batho mafak’igroza ngoleft.

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They Keep Taking Everything

Hazel Fasaha Tobo Untitled 2020-06-26 03:13:39

We are always scared that we might turn up dead tomorrow, and when we don’t, another woman dies instead. We wake up to the weight of the news like it is our own story because it is, because we are her, and she too was like us before she was taken. She too lived in a space of unknown seconds to come, she too was like us when she read of women who were stabbed, raped and brutally murdered by lovers, strangers, service consultants, friends, colleagues and relatives. We cry.

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Sarafina! My Story!

Nompumelelo Danisa Untitled 2020-06-16 11:03:15

In my time now, / Lets not kill them / Lets kill the corporate field / Lets take over the land / Lets be more black than we have ever been!

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The RUPTURE

Yamoria Untitled 2020-05-01 02:00:00

Koko danced herself into a casket / Offering her blood as a tablecloth / She is skin, melting away at the seams, / Offering her rupture as a chorus

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I Cannot White Anymore

Makhafula Vilakazi Untitled 2020-04-09 22:00:00

I do not want to white anymore! I do not want to rainbow without bread. I do not want to hate Cecil and anthem with his children, to shoot Hofmeyr and dance to Micasa, to burn sparrows and mourn the death of cleggs, to hate Eugene and thank Slovo.

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The Land of Illusionary Milk and Honey Read by Andrew Manyika

Thandiwe Zhanje Untitled 2020-03-09 22:00:00

But when I arrived All I saw of the landscape was its rancid torso. The rivers had become prisoners condemned to an eternity of stillness. The contours were scars, tallying the countless years of trauma. The soil had hardened, open hands were now closed fists. No songs were heard. No musicians were in sight.

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