I have not sang yet
I have not sang yet since Uyinene and Jesse
I tried
but then new names ran into my mouth
with unbelievable speed I could not swallow
I could not find a sound, I gulped names
could not even breathe, I screamed
wanted those names to stop running
but they continue to choke
desperately pleading and warning
I don’t know if I will ever be able to sing again
too many names are stuck on my tongue
too many horror movies in daily sequence
I have not sang yet since Uyinene and Jesse
My mother was a storm
My mother was a storm
a sky filled with dark clouds
she could threaten
or just burst open
she gave warnings
before she lashed
her thundering tongue
uprooting old, dead trees, theories
my mother cleaned with an iron duster
she swept away all dirt and falsehoods
my mother risked having her name tarnished
but could not be tamed
I did not want to see her rain down so freely
she had to stop before it became too wet
I feared her drowning, I feared those floods
that had me gasp for air…
I thought my mother was too intense a winter
knew that she carried a summer
but one in which flash floods hid
oh but how I long for that storm now
a fierce, an all encompassing one
these days in which hard rocks bash tear at skin and soul
I wish my mother could enter the sky
and with an angry wind gather the clouds
rain down hard and dissolve
those rocks still so intact, so smug
today I need my mother!
For Yanga
So much happens
In this life
but much more so
in this country.
I find myself
sliding through
the happenings
the sayings
trying not to touch
not to feel too much
and yet turn back
to look one more time
at the tragedies unfolding
Whilst weeping at old graves
I find myself at fresh ones
of those I did not know well
but whose hearts crossed mine
Now it’s Yanga, the dancer
the singer, the young man
of Nyanga, who could dance-fly
who was sharp-knifed into the sky
He will not come down
to land legs crossed
leaving the audience wordless
He will not bow to the applause,
run backstage to hug his fellows
He will not rush to the station
to catch the earlier train
knowing what the late one signifies
He will not, he will not
Oh I must feel him, must hear his cries
before the soul in me dies
In conversations with my mother
I ask her if she can remember how she plaited my hair
so tight my eyes pulled up, sideways.
but I know now she wanted me to look neat,
to look pretty.
She told me to walk upright, shoulders straight.
Now I wish that we had moisturiser, sunblock and shampoo
to iron out those lines so matured on her face –
too soon,
the lifelong battles battered her skin.
Now that I can afford to mirror myself,
hands full of cream and products
to protect me,
I so wish I could have protected her.
