Archives for January 2016


The life i have been living
The life i have been hoping for
Dreams i have dreamt
Goals i have aimed to achieve
The future i have been planing
All seem to have lost significance as i enter into a new world
A strange kind of world, very different from the ordinary world
A world of high walls and fences
A world of surveillance
A world of chains and locks
A world were boys have to man-up
Girls become woman
A world which has now become my home
A home for change, introspection and remorse
A home for people like me
People who have wronged against the law
It all happened so Fast
It was never planned
A night out with friends, few drinks and i ended up with a sentence

Today i stand behind this bars barring me from all my heart’s desires with the hope of becoming a better man



# We’re living in a hashtag prison #
# With maximum security passwords and special characters #
# Full of status updates and tweets posted in solitary confinement #
# And visitations from notifications and reminders for things no one remembers #
# Trolls, cyberbullies and racists are locked up in here #
# Small time users and serial tweeters alike #
# Locked up for likes, comments and retweets #
# What are you in here for – when did you arrive? #
# Numbers gangs rule the inside #
# The number of followers and the number of friends #
# They get involved in personal attacks and gang twars #
# And they are forever recruiting through friend requests #
# Data bundles are the currency of choice #
# Hunger strikes are prevalent when they are depleted #
# Withdrawal symptoms kick in for addicts deprived of their daily high #
# As followers wait patiently to be retweeted #
# A keen eye is kept on walls and timelines #
# Looking for any illicit activity #
# Patrolled by heavily armed terms and conditions #
# Hoping to police those in this captivity #
# A few still have hopes for freedom #
# A chance to give up their logon details #
# But this place has become our home #
# Ask the repeat offender – he tries to stay away but he fails #
# We all are prisoners here – of our own creation #
# A few might escape – some remain till they are deceased #
# You can enter at any time that you wish #
# But once inside you may never be released #
# Welcome to the place where strangers are buddies #
# Where we lol, lmao and hope to fit in #
# Where we are inmates when we were to be honoured guests #
# Welcome to the hashtag prison #



I have a little friend I’ve come to hate
It took quite a while before we clicked
Cough, cough – I choked and coughed hard
The moment I first stuck him between my lips
I, however, was determined to get to terms with him

His sensation led me to a problem free world
He helped me ‘forget’ all my problems
Providing relief in times of stress
A dear friend he proved to be…. for sometime
He made me feel like I own the world

Pull in, relax, blow out into the clean sky
I felt like a King biting my ‘stick of death’
Those who don’t smoke are lost for sure
They have no idea what they’re missing
Those were the good times!

I’ve made up my mind and I now want out
But I have utterly lost control
He has taken over my life
I want to quit, I keep saying as I light it
I now wish I never met this friend of mine

I’ve become his hopeless and voiceless slave
But I badly want my clean life back
He hasn’t done my pocket any good either
Together we have squandered a good fortune
I don’t know how to drop him off my lips

Who will set me free from this smokey bondage?
My family and friends have given up on me
Where shall I run to so he won’t find me?
They dragged me to rehab in efforts to keep us apart
He kept calling my name loud from outside

I’m buying no more when I finish this
I’ve told myself this a thousand times
But I’ve gone on to buy again…….and again
I wish it was that easy to quit
Pull in, relax, blow out into the clean sky!


Come let’s take a firm stand
Stand up for our nation
The land of our origination
Me and you plus our dedication
We can turn our rainbow nation
Into the reality of our imagination

Here sounds loud the unified call
For Azania the home of us all
Together we shall stand and never fall
Anyone rising up in arms to take us on
As an enemy will be sure to fall
Forever we shall stand tall

Come let’s plant a seed
For together nations we will feed
Let’s root out and destroy the weed
The ten commandments let’s all read
So we’re together in word and deed
Like all the pieces of a beautiful bead

Ours is a land of possibilities
And unimaginable realities
We are a people who make our own destiny
While bearing in mind our origin


Saying goodbye to a mirage of my affection

Sewing back torn heartstrings ruptured by deceit

Ebbing the flow of undeserved tears

Stemming my inclined thoughts

Ceasing to display want of action

Withholding my attention

Soothing my rage

Nursing your selfish inflicted wounds

Forgiving my own folly

Binding and casting what remains of you

Laughing at the banes of yester-year

Hopeful for the joys of the coming day




There’s a darkness about him

There’s a darkness about him
cant put my finger on it
something sinister and foreboding
there’s no glow to his face
like his hiding something
dark clouds surround him

But do I tell you my friend
the one about to marry him
I have no proof -it’s just
there’s a darkness about him
please get to know him
find out why his wives left him

You are the light
dont loose your glow
find out more before you say
I do
there’s a darkness about him
dont let this man be your mistake

To those who dare to stand!

I haven’t really said anything online concerning how I feel about students protesting over fees being too high and stuff. It’s not that what I think they did wasn’t brave or really admirable, it’s that I wish I had maybe had the “apples” to have done something that amazing when I was in varsity. I recall scrapping registration fees together from relatives to get into a University to study something, anything I just wanted an education.

I couldn’t afford to step foot into a varsity and I know it (so does my bank balance) but…what they did was very brave and I take my bra off to them. I do this as the highest form of respect for real.
To stand up for a cause takes a lot of “apples” and I wish I had those “apples” in every area of my life.
I am a coward of note and would never risk doing anything that would land me even a stone throw away from a holding cell, let alone an actual jail. There are numerous reasons for this, number one, I fear having a criminal record because I heard even Shoprite won’t hire you as a packer if you have one of those and who would want to be rejected by Shoprite?
Number two, my aunt would kill me before I would get the chance to explain why I was there. My fear for her is too great to fight any system regardless of what it is, I am sorry dear comrades. Number three, I don’t wanna know what teargas smells like, I cannot run to save my life, I’d probably be more of a liability than a comrade during a protest. I am a giant coward and that is it!

It is with all these factors that I admire the students of 2015 who dared to stand up for what they believed in. So…power to those of you who know how to stand up for yourself at work with an unrealistic boss, in family matters with stubborn uncles, a government that buys luxury jets, or at school with ridiculously high fees. In all the fighting that you do, know that there is a coward out there that is me who is thinking and writing about you in her safe little corner admiring your courage.


I got married the other day

I tied the not a little over 6 months ago and it really has been a experience I will never forget.



But …this isn’t about me and my marriage, it’s more about the journey towards getting married from everyone else’s experience, lack thereof and all the advice I received, wanted and unwanted that I will write about.

I got advise from elders, young people, spinsters, bachelors, happily married folk, unhappily married folk, pastors, fiends, EVERYONE who pretty much had a mouth and an opinion.

I was told not to do it and that this would ruin my life because he would change after we got married and I’d be his slave disguised as a wife. I was told not to do it because my freedom would be a thing of the past, I’d never again see the light of day and that he’d never let me go out at night ever again! I thought snap then why do people still do it on that show that plays every Sunday at 7pm?  Why is Home affairs filled with bookings until next year?

Those really were confusing times for me…

During the count down to the big day I had all this advice running through my head. I was freaking out…what if I was really going to marry someone who pretended to be a Prince but instead would lock me up in a tower and I’d have to wait for an ugly ogre named Shrek to save me?  They told me I’d have to cook and clean and be a sex slave and I’d never be the same again. They joked about how married people wish to be single and how I was going against freedom.

So…I had a private meeting with myself and the god who created me. I told him to please teach me how to discern, I could not get how a man so sweet would turn into a big bad wolf because a ring was on my finger. How could so many years of knowing someone change after all we had been through.

I couldn’t get how people who didn’t know who he was could say that there was a 100% chance of being cheated on because he was a Zulu man. I asked my maker to teach me how to create a filter that would separate hogwash from wisdom, how to see someone who is speaking from a place of expertise and one speaking from a place of hurt. I wanted my maker to help me remember the advise to keep engraved on the palm of my hand and I asked him to show me the advise to flush down the drain.

He did that. I did that. We did that.

I am in no big place to give advice about marriage as I learn everyday, but what I can say is in all things seek the one who made you to be your ultimate teacher.







Ten cents

My father was a great gambler. When he won he came home with pockets weighed down by jingling coins and a nip of brandy. On those days we knew that he got lucky with a fafi number, the chinese game that was so popular in the township;still is. It made no difference to us, my mother and I, whether he won or lost, because we knew that we would not get even a cent from that man.

He was a tall and imposing man. His shoes where always dusty because he kicked up the dust when he walked. He shuffled rather than walked. And when he was drunk the dust went up to his pants. On some ocassions the dust even went up to his shirt. My mother was constantly scrubbing away at his clothes, but no matter how much she scrubbed they never got clean because there was never any soap with wich to wash. My father couldn’t even bring himself to buy soap, but he was constantly complaining about his clothes not being clean.

One day, while I was pushing a brick around the yard, and my mother was inside the house (a one room shack that was divided into a bedroom, a sitting room and a kitchen through various ingenuities) cooking the wild spinach that grew in abandon on our backyard, I saw my father approach. Our house looked directly into the main street, all who came and went passed this way. He shuffled his way through the street, singing to himself. He had a great baritone voice wich made an impression on anyone who heard it. I unfortunately did not inherit that voice, when people hear me speak or sing (if ever they could catch a glimpse of those private moments) I imagine some doubt is kindled as to whether I am indeed my father’s son.
He pushed open the small metal wire gate, wich sagged to the side like an injured dog. Both of his pockets where also sagging, the tinkling coins accompanying the melody of his voice, and the nip of brandy adding a jolly enthusiasm to that rich baritone. The dust had enveloped him from his shoes, to the collar of his shirt.
I stood up from my game, swinging my hands and walking like I was in a robotic marching band, I approached him.

“Pa?” I said.
“Yes, son of mine” he bellowed.
“Can I have ten cents?”

I was not in the habit of asking my father for money, and he was not in the habit of giving me any, but I wanted to test him on that day.
He looked at me with one eye closed, as if I was the subject of a very intense study, and the other eye was getting in the way of close and proper inspection.

“Ten cent, ten cent, ten cent…” he said, as if contemplating the wonderful concept of a ten cent.
“Ten cent…Matemusho,” he called to my mother.
“Eya papa.” answered my mother from inside the house.
“This child of yours is asking me for ten cent, did you send him to ask me for money?”
“Ha ah papa Temusho, I did no such thing.”
“Children of today…When I was your age I never asked my father for money. When I was your age my back was already bent from hard work.”
His back showed no trace of that particular childhood affliction.
“But I am too young to work” I said.
“Too young to work? Listen to this boy…Matemusho, how old is this child of ours?”
“He has ten years papa.”
“Ten years? And he says he is too young to work? Children of today, have you ever heard of such a thing…”
He shuffled off and is swallowed by the door, to regale my mother with tales of wich she has no interest.

I went back to my game of pushing bricks, with a plan formulating in my head. My father didnt care anyway. He didn’t care that I wore the same shirt to school five days in a row, washing it once a week in the gentlest way because I was afraid of getting it torn. He didn’t care that my pants were riddled with stitch after stitch, that my feet licked the ground because the soles of my shoes were gone, eaten away by one too many steps.
I knew that by the next day the money would be gone. He would drink it all or gamble it away, and arrive home looking like a wet cat, not at all like the jovial singing maestro he now was.

At night my father gave me his dusty shoes to polish, or atleast make them look presentable for another tussle with the dusty streets. My mother had already gone to bed, and I could hear my father fiddling with his belt, getting ready to get into bed as well. I brushed the shoes slowly, letting the time pass. When I heard him snore, I went into their bedroom and put the shoes under the old chair next to their bed where my father put his clothes, folded neatly and ready for another day. I was always amazed at how he managed to fold his clothes with such military precision, even when drunk. I took another look at him to make sure that he was still sleeping. He snored with his mouth open, drool running onto his pillow.
I tool all the money from his pocket. There was a small amount of brandy in the bottle of nip. I thought of drinking it, but then decided against it. I was about to leave when an idea occured to me. I went back to the chair and left a ten cent coin in his pocket.

In the morning I was woken by my fathers bellowing voice, as I expected, and I tossed my blanket aside, bracing myself for trouble.

“Wake that boy up, I’m killing someone today, I swear it.” said my father.

My mother came into the living room slash place where I slept, my father following behind with a belt in hand. I stood up immediately.

“Did you take your father’s money?” asked my mother.

“No I didn’t…”

“Hey don’t lie tome boy, give me that money!” said my father.

“I didn’t take it I am telling you I didn’t take it, I don’t know what you are talking about.”

My father raised his hand, the belt came down, I ducked and he missed. My mother had positioned herself on the door. when I ran towards her she opened the door and we ran out, my father following closely behind. There we where, me in only my underwear, my mother still wearing her once white but now yellowing hand me down silk night dress, and my topless father chasing us around the house, vomiting all manner of expletives known to man. At times he stopped and ran in the opposite direction hoping that we would run into him, but we we also stopped, and waited to see him turn the corner, at wich point we ran in the opposite direction. He would never catch us with that shuffling run. He soon got tired of chasing us, so he made his way into the house to get ready for work. We could hear him cursing to himself inside the house while we stood shivering in the early morning cold.

“Mama, I did take father’s money.” I confessed.

“I know…”

“You know?”

“I saw you last night when you took it,” she said with a smile, “Where did you put it?”

“I put it in a tin and buried it in that patch of ground where the wild spinach grows.”

“You did well, but you father is going to be angry for some time, so as soon as he leaves we get our things and head to mama Josephina’s house.”

Mama Josephina was the old woman next door who always provided us with shelter whenever my father went on a rampage. We stayed for four days at her house. After wich my father, singing with a jovial baritone, his pockets rattling with coins, came to fetch us.

“Mama Josephina, give me my people, I have come to fetch them”

He looked with one eye closed at the new shoes on my feet. I lifted them up for inspection unconsciously, my hands in the pockets of my new pants. he patted me on my head, rummaging in his pockets, and gave a ten cent coin.

Chain of Change – Inspired by Madiba

You made a change
Which made a world change
Which made me change
I hope to be the change
That can create change in others
So that your chain of change
Can be sustained.