It is not often that men consider the lot of beings lesser to them.
At their peril they discount the very idea these creatures may hold knowledge they themselves lack the capacity to comprehend.
A humble fly, a pest, a spreader of disease and pestilence, the worst kind of vermin. Reviled and exterminated whenever possible. Yet even now, thousands of their number were being drawn to a place, plain to see were the night not so dark under the clouds of the coming storm, where lay one who the givers of law so fervently sought.
She lay not alone, for within the steady and dispassionate circle of light cast by the electric lamp above stood her killer and no single emotion marred his placid face.
Her remains were not fair to see. Even discounting dirt and blood, the signs of hard use by hand and blade were upon her cold flesh. Had her spirit lingered, as perhaps it did, she would have witnessed the true wakening of that which had slept for long ages past.
Her killer spoke, though to whom it could not be said for he was alone in that lighted circle with only the departed dead.
Had her eyes still seen, as indeed from beyond they might, she would have seen the shaking of his hands, the primal fear belied by his dead eyes and unmoving expression as the blade which had stolen her life was drawn once more from its hiding place upon his person.
Had she been able to hear, and in truth she must have as all the dead do when they are spoken of, bitter would have been her tears to hear his stumbling words of supplication. No laments for her forgiveness, not entreaties to stave her wrath, none even to wish her a graceful rest in the life beyond. No, only worshipful mutterings in some ancient and nonsensical tongue passed his lips.
Up came the blade, and well may she have run, remembering its deadly touch. To heart, to lips he held it, swearing that which should never be sworn. Stillness, absolute and infinite settled. No creature born of night dared give voice. Even the masses of flies stilled, their innumerable wings held as a man would hold his breath.
On and on he spoke, making promises and bartering the tangible and intangible essences of his being and hers to the silence… until…
No sound changed, no great lights broke in the sky, no flicker marred the heartlessly efficient circle of light, no shadow moved, and yet within the circle he stood alone no more.
Eyes were on him, older and darker than those of his departed victim, unseen but felt unto the dregs of his soul. Smells assaulted his nostrils, rain, smoke, fresh turned earth… and blood.
He knew what he had woken, primal and ancient, born of the sacred blade first christened by his own willing blood… and then the blood of prey.
Twice before and now, the final time, he’d heeded the whispers seeping from the shadows, their promises ambrosia to an ashen heart. He felt no remorse for he was pure, and he was blameless. He’d hunted and sacrificed as was demanded, as men had done since the first days, no crime at all compared to what was to be gained.
From the first it had shielded him, showing him what paths to walk, where to sleep and when to flee, and when to take his prey all unawares. The givers of men’s laws were far from him, walking different paths and serving different powers. They could not touch him.
He shuddered as that which he had woken regarded him, coldly assessing its servant.
He’d sworn, he’d sacrificed, yet even now his acceptance into its embrace was not assured. It would brook no weakness, no frailties, no hesitation.
Moments wore on. Each a searing eternity under its scrutiny…
And then it spoke for only him to hear
“Yes…â€
Lightning split the black sky and all sound returned in a rushing wave, the legion of flies burst their ranks asunder even as glass rained from the shattered lamp. They would not touch this meat, this prey. It belonged to the oldest of things now, woken from its slumber and returned to a world it had long since abandoned.
And in the darkness as the first rain fell, he laughed.
(Written to set the tone and scene for my main antagonist)
The Hunter Awakes (Intro to a new story of mine)
Will History Repeat Itself?
Deliwe is a 17 year old girl living at Bhekuzulu rural area with her grandmother who is everything to her. They survive through the granny’s old age grant.
Everyday she has to rush straight from school to her house to fetch water, wash her uniform, cook supper and go back to school for a late study. As she is doing grade 12 this year she can’t help out on some of the chores because she has lots of school work to do. From grade one she has never failed, this year its her chance to prove herself by passing her matric with flying colours so that she can get a bursary or hopefully a scholarship to further her studies.
All these years she has focused on her studies, listened to her teachers and managed to stay away from trouble. Granny can’t afford to bail her out of any trouble as she has been both mother and father to her since her mother passed away after giving birth to Deliwe and her father was never known; some say he was working at a mine in Johannesburg. She is so focused in her studies as she wants to make granny
proud and build a beautiful house for her, hire a lady who can help granny out with her chores and also buy grocery for her.
While they are studying at the afternoon study in school other girls are busy with boys. If she is lamung them for what they sre doing, they tell her “Come on Deliwe. YOLO!” Now there is this boy(Mzwandile) who is flirting with Deliwe. Honestly she does not seem to care about that. This boy is so patient with her he even accompanies her on her way home from school to continue begging her for her heart.
Lets see if Deliwe can stick on her goal without being distracted. Granny is counting in her for heaven’s sake. She has her whole future gazing up on her; one mistake everything will be gone and history may repeat it self.
Coming out
When the time comes to break loose from the chains that have bound you, controlled you and consumed you, all you’ve ever known will no longer imprison you in the very thoughts that have weighed you down, closed off parts of you that you’ve long forgotten not because you wanted to but you chose to, you may have forgotten the very things that tore apart your innocence however sometimes it’s not about remembering but rather about accepting. the choice you made holds more weight than the event that caused the change. We live by free will and choice, you determine where you end up, not an action of someone else. How do you end up in those chains? Self pity, your actions and thoughts become your values and your destiny and its not in your destiny to live with pity, blame and playing victim. We all victims of “thought”, our thoughts as it sends the signal out to the universe that this is all we are prepared to accept and then complain that we have it bad, that things never go right, what we dont realise is just how powerful thought is, you “think”therefore you “are”.
Mistakes? How can there be such a thing? Truth is its just a softer more acceptable version of saying “bad choice” unless by the forced hand of someone else you were given choice, you chose wrong for your own needs its not a mistake. Its a result of an action a thought and the outcome? the very thing you gave out to the universe is enivetibly what it returned to you, consider it mild cases of karmic reaction. We were built with profound knowledge, we were built as beings of light with a deep sense of love, the kind of love you may never in your lifetime in this reality get to feel, we come here as empty vessels yet become sponges absorbing everything around us, even from the moment within the womb. People blame poor parenting as the starting blocks for the way they grew up, but how can we be so ignorant? The most amazing gift we are all given is free will, you are your own creator of your destiny, not the bad parents who raised you or the difficult situations you endured no bad experience should shape you into anything less than the best version of you,who loves on the deepest level, who believes that one act of kindness a simple smile and soft spoken words is all part of a higher level o f existence. We let the opinions of other or even money and vanity rule our lives yet we fail to see the real beauty, the real purpose of what and who we are, and thats just it, we have forgotten..not the important lessons we let go of but the purpose of our journey
Its not part of our plan to be anything less than at peace with who and what we are, it wasnt part of the plan to learn from past mistakes in order to grow because truth is we have always been grown. Our purpose was to remember our soul purpose, to see our own light and to live out all previous karma given in this lifetime from a previous life to balance out the wrongs done in those past lifetimes. Just like the caterpillar that transforms into beauty of its own which we call “the butterfly”we here to evolve in our real beauty of who we are and once we have learned this, spread our wings and fly off into the very place we long for. Forget about making changes in the world, change starts with you and just like anything contagious this change will spread through all. You come here to save your own soul first, once this task is complete many souls will be saved too. Forget the reflection in the mirror, whether the reflection is that of elegant beauty or perhaps that of flaws its merely just as useful as the clothing you wear, it only becomes what you call your ego.
The next time you lose yourself, look towards the sunset, close your eyes, breath and feel your connection to the very things put there to remind you of all you are, all you want to be and all you meant to be. You are not the name you carry, or the car you drive neither are you the title you hold. You are a beacon of light created with love and driven by free will, and the greatest yet also most difficult thing apart from free will given to us is time. Its the only thing that once lost can never be taken back, you can speak words with regret but take them back but time the most precious yet taken for granted privalege we can never take back. Our hourglass the sands of time once activated cannot be paused, when it expires so do we and its not about what we leave behind in this time of expiration that counts but rather what we take with us. This journey is not about leaving our mark behind its about our need to grow beyond this reality. Its our cycle of metamorphosis and just because you cant see your wings that doesnt mean you can’t soar, falling is part of building up the courage and hope needed to one day step off the edge of that high cliff knowing we will fly, if you step off to soon how can you expect to fly? It’s when you leave your ego behind when stepping off that cliff and not seeing your wings but believing they there that you will find yourself suddenly experiencing the freedom you have been seeking for so long, and when you find it you will finally know it has always been a part of you but you just needed to remember how to fly.
only if i was less foolish
if life was a film/a book and I was the official,i guarantee you that I would censor it at every horrible part of its chapter.
one Monday morning I woke up to a delightful day it felt like it was gonna be the best day of my life,God pardon my confusion.It was the day I bought pain and sorrows in my life and to my already critical emotions.I took a long over whelming bath,with the smell of fire to fire body lotion it felt like heaven.
My school bag was ready,school books all packed in and school uniform ironed ready for me to wear.When done I made my self breakfast “just a bowl of cereal will do” I thought to myself.
i grabbed my bag and off to school I went,while at that I bumped into someone.His steak of books fell to the ground,I bended down to pick them up that instant with hope that it’s no one rude.Only to notice it was him, “its the guy from school” I wasn’t aware that I was thinking out loud.Nevertheless he gave me a formal introduction and trust me when i tell you I was impressed.
days…….weeks…….months……passed and we got to know each other, we grew closer and firm together that he even proposed love to me.I was too blind and foolish to believe him.We dated for a year and few months it felt so amazing,i was so complaints towards him with no curb.
All that was for nothing,I am stating this with tears on my face.Now we like strangers who are taking the same road to a funeral…….IF ONLY I HAD NOT LISTENED TO HIM…….I wouldn’t have had to deal with the heartache,so much torture,lots of pain because of seeing the love of your life love someone else.
It just felt like my world came crushing down with the thought of watching but not being able to do a thing about it.
Do you want to know what happened not long ago?it certainly involves the same person I really must tell………
but that’s a story for another day
Helping hand
Nadia was a young woman who used to sell vetkooks in a local train station. Early twenties,lightskinned,dark circles around her eyes and petite. Everyday i passed her when i went to school i used to wonder why she is not at school. I always wanted to stop, greet and have a decent conversation with her but the vetkook business was busy and she always looked so tired for casual chit chats. During seasons changes, from the freezing winter mornings to windy August mornings, she was always there. One morning she had a companion. A man. The man i have see before. He used to go around the hood asking for money,food,a homeless man. That morning he was bathed and clean. Nadia took him home the previous day and nursed him. People kept asking Nadia how she did it. She replied ”All i did was to ask. I asked to help him and he said yes. Helping me this morning is his way of showing how thankfull he is”. That response almost broke my heart. Help. All along i believed she was the one who needed help and yet she helped someone. No matter what hardship she went through she understood that someone out there needed a hand to pick them up. That somehow she had something that others did not have and that gave her an upper helping hand. I wanted to hold her hand and say God Bless You but as usual she was surrounded by a crowd of her loyal customers. When she lifted her head i shouted the three words-Go Bless You and she gave a faint smile nodding a simple thank you. I always wanted to talk to her but that morning i felt like i got all the answers i ever had. A glance at my watch i realised i was getting late for my first class. I ran to school.
Honourable Mr. President
I was at the gym the other day, staring at the floor, hands on exhausted hips, trying to recoup from a treadmill experience. A pair of Takkies walked into my gaze. A pair of White Takkies caught my attention for some obscure reason? These Takkies had tasted and toiled the South African ground they were not reserved for gym escapades alone. They were not unkempt just worn. Proudly. Shamelessly. They had been washed one too many times as the fraying edges told the story of been beaten in the washing machine. They were not branded, probably a Mr. Price version of Nike, but what retrospectively caught my attention was how humble those Takkies were.
I glanced at their owner – a stocky proud African man. His rounded tummy snuck out of his stretched shirt, he kind of made me think of a black Winnie The Pooh, he looked very cute and had an air of hug-ability about him. He held a very used old Energade bottle on which I could see the remains of the day on the label as white sticky sediments of whatever flavour that Energade was. It was humble, Sunlight liquid had tarnished its appearance, but it indeed worked. The owner had a chilled yet confident expression on his podgy wholesome face. He was in no hurry to complete the circuit. He sat on the bench of one of the arm apparatus machines and checked the people fiercely carrying on with their individual battle to bodies. His battle did not seem as inflexible as the others – it seemed to me like whether he did 10 or 2 push ups he would still see himself as having accomplished a milestone. He was at gym. He was honestlty trying. That was the landmark.
I tried to fathom why the Takkies of an African Winnie The Pooh had such an impact on me? Then it came. Sunday night on Carte Blanche they interviewed Mmusi Maimane, the brand spanking new Democratic Alliance Leader and I saw what was hugging onto me so. I had heard that Mr. Maimane had taken over from his predecessor, Mrs. Helen Zille, but didn’t know much else. I didn’t care much else either, I had lost hope, I was grieving the pride I once felt when Mr. Mandela was leading us out of Egypt into our Promised Land, which has now sadly become Tarnished Land. I got to the place of total dissidence, what was the use in actually bothering to vote anyway? I was first shocked then moved as I watched this epiphany, Mr. Mmusi Maimane make his landmark.
This was it, I understood what the gym incident had tried to portray and wanted me to see through those dear White Takkies (bless). I saw a picture of a hard working, honourable, ethical and humble African doing what he can with what he has in order to slowly but surely shed the arrogance from the fattened calf, Mr. Zuma. He was shown in parliament addressing President Zuma, it was a bold reformation to behold. He said “Honourable President, when I use the term ‘Honourable’, I use it out of respect for the traditions and conventions of this House but please do not take it literally. For you, honourable president, are not an Honourable Man……Lead the way or step aside”.
I say to you Mr. Maimane, lead us! Walk South Africa into its predestined triumph, we have tasted it before. Mr. Mandela lifted an Honourable staff and the sea parted, now walk us through it. White Takkies, black feet.
Facade
They do not know. No one really does. She keeps all at arms length. Never letting anyone in too close- too near. She let’s them see what she wants them to see… but slowly the armour is starting to shatter. The rust is becoming visible and soon she is uncomfortable. She still wears her mask.
She struggles being afforded with compliments and praise or others viewing her positively but secretly she yearns for more acknowledgement. She is a complex being. She is both strong and fragile. She does not know who she really is but she is not who she use to be… but what she does not know is that she has changed. She has been shaped by her experiences. She still wears her mask.
why does she wear this mask, all too often? why can she not take it off and bear her soul? Is she afraid of her reality? Possibly. She is overwhelmed by her thoughts and the pressure she puts on herself. She is afraid of her dreams. She is both proud of who and what she is and terrified by her being at the same time. She still wears her mask.
Does anyone truly care, she asks? In the true essence of the word. She still wears her mask. She tries to slowly peel off her mask, but this sparks tears, fuels an undesirable unwanted uncomfortable feeling. She still wears her mask. She feels protected with her mask on. No one will ever know about her. She feels in control. Why then does this mask not make her happy? She still wears her mask. She stands lethargically alone staring at this mask she wears in the mirror. She is tired. She is weary. She is afraid… but she has also come to the realisation that as the years have passed, she has outgrown this mask. It no longer serves her. In fact, it never did. She starts to slowly remove it, welcoming any unpleasantness it brings as the tears roll down her cheeks.
She breaks as she falls to the floor, unable to face herself in the mirror. She indulges this feeling and chooses not to fight with herself anymore. She reluctantly forces herself to get up again, to stand and face the truth she sees in the mirror. The tears start flowing again but this time, because of an awakening. A catharsis unfolds. She sees reflected back at her, the strength she gained from adversity, the love she has for others and herself, the pride of how far she has come and the contentment of realising she is worthy of an abundance of blessings she has received and those that are yet to come.
She still battles with this new feeling, with not having on her armour but she is on a journey, okay with knowing that she does not always have to be okay… okay with accepting the misfortunes of the past and letting that fuel her growth… She is learning to be okay with herself…
She no longer wears her mask
Journey
Two decades. That’s twenty years. That’s me.
I am 8, she is blind. Doctors can’t find any medical errors that would cause blindness in her body but that doesn’t stop him he keeps on going back and forth, getting this laser surgery, consulting that doctor, getting those pills – she drinks seven pills twice a day – he has faith. It is worse now she can’t see any type of illumination but that doesn’t stop her she creates a blueprint of the house, she starts examining appliances in the kitchen, she even starts cooking.
It is December. She is in hospital. Her sister is here helping him but she is especially here for her. The weather is sunny, beautiful and peaceful – the type of weather that makes you want to grab a blanket and lay under a tree, with your eyes closed, listening to the tranquil sounds of leaves shaking to the soft warm breeze that lightly massages your cheeks as if to kiss you like a shy debutant kissing her suitor for the first time, the type of weather that allows souls to float peacefully – she’s watching television. He’s in the shower. His phone rings, she runs to answer. It’s a white lady, she sounds awkward. She calls again. He steps out of the bathroom with tears in his eyes, he answers. “She’s gone. Mamma is gone, Jujuâ€. Everything’s blank, she sees nothing she hears nothing. She finally opens her eyes and sees tears on the clothes, she can smell her everywhere. The smell makes her sick to her heart. She looks at the wall and sees a calendar, the date is December 22. “Would you look at that Christmas is in three days, I guess Santa Clause delivered my present earlyâ€
“She died peacefully†(they said), “she just slept and never woke up… painless†(they said) but that was all pity, stupid shallow sympathy. How can someone who died at the hands of green, vile jealousy die a peaceful death? Someone who was robbed from their 70 years?
How could you? You call yourself her friend, now she’s dead because of your evil heart. Tell me, how did it feel putting your muti under her desk? Did you even think about him? About her?  No curse on earth is evil enough to destroy you, no jail traumatizing enough to kill you and no hell hot enough to burn you – I bet Santa Clause got you a new phone.
One decade. That’s ten years. That’s me.
I can’t remember her voice. I can remember her hair, her smile, her face, her hands, her eyes. But I can’t remember her voice – love sounds so better when it has a voice. Now I don’t have the ability to remember what I had all I know is what I will never have. I will never have a phone number to call when I need to complain about a boy and ask for money. I will never have her to thank for bringing me to life at my graduation. I will never get to feel to her unconditional love, that close to the soul love… that “emotionally no one should be able to survive without it†love.
I might be twenty but I will forever be ten, because when I was ten that was the last time I heard her voice.
Kwame
On the 10th of january she screamed in agony clutching onto everything in her path as she tried with every breathe in her to compose herself. While everyone seemed not to take her as seriously as she wanted them to. She would have prefered them running around panicking like headless chickens maybe that would destract her from the excruciating pain. As she entered the hospital she was greated with even more smiles which only seemed to aggrevate her even more. “It’s time,” said the doctor, while everyone was pacing up and down the corridors Teddy stood by her side , holding her hand while she squeezed it with every push. There he was in the doctors arms as Teddy confidently let his tears stream down his cheeks , “it’s a boy babe, we have a son,” he said. Kwame was his name!!
Confused
how can the world be so empty, no life just loneliness, only the sounds of birds, waves and a blow of air. living with the thoughts of what if, if I could have. am I living in regrets or regrets are living me.? everything seems so slow a minute had became an hour, an hour had became a month and a month had became a year. with a blink of hope I believe I will rise again, like a son rising on the mountains. it will begin to shine, my world and life will shine like never before. that day I will call my self a conqueror!
