MAGAZINE
Poets do not die, / They flutter / militantly / Transposing eventualities / and acuity / death is alchemy / and range / it is paramountcy / Transcendence
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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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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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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 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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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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Re kgobokanela Gauteng re tlo tjheka kgauta, / Re tela mobu wa baholo, re hlobohane le oona. / Baena le dikgaetsedi, basadi le bana ba setse morao. / Toro tsa bona re di jere mahetleng a rona / Lebaka ke bona re leng matlolaterata / Empa kgauta e re roka mahlwana a naketsana / E robatsa moutlwa, sepheo le morero wa yona ke ho re metsa.
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the violence of silence as we watch people who have come to our city struggle to maintain their dignity and we do nothing
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