Nervous Camera
when we come to tell the story of Soweto on film
the camera would be nervous
it will dance uneasily
to capture castrated dreams of freedom
of fruit plucked raw
children wasting under enemy fire
the tracking shot
would travel down memory lane
to one scorching winter in 76
to focus on the gushing wound of hector
and close up
on the artistic like fingers of mbuyisa
that tried to prolong his dear life
the camera will come back here
to tell the story
of a day that started like any other day
and ended
like no other day
through the vibrating microphone
the voice of tsietsi would come back to life
booming through the airwaves
storming the corridors of the sabc
jamming the networks
furiously, and frantically
the prophetic writings of steve
will type themselves on screen
selling free ideas of black power
black beauty
black man you are on your own!
nervously,
the camera would tilt up its head with pride
to capture the cascading black clouds
bowing down in salute
to fallen young soldiers
armed with textbooks, bricks and pens
the camera would freeze mid air
to capture the flying stone
split in between with a BANG
by marauding enemy bullets
the camera would hitch a ride
on the wings of a dove
to give aerial shots
of a township enveloped in smoke
streets under siege
and capture the nauseating smell
of teargas drilling into flesh
the blood drops on the grass
will gather again
to splash the lens
washing dry the tears of our mothers
and when
in the comfort of your own homes
your eyes have filled their sight
I will direct the camera
to pan to a better tomorrow
but before that
to tilt up its head once more
and freeze on a comet star
winking, blinking
at a new dawn
The Slave Has Become The Master
while the slave sleeps
comfortably
between a rock and a rock
the master labours restlessly
wondering without end
if the slave would rise up one day
to take his place
in the household of life
the slave has become the master
he sits heavily on the mind of the mighty
unconscious of his weight
while the master tries to figure out without end
if the rope is long and deep enough
for the glaring ribs on the neck of the servant
while the slave showers
under the salt of his own sweat
the master sweats and pants
wondering without end
if he will finish this race against God
the master toils sleeplessly
over whether he will have enough coffers for his gold
nor the required math to count his shekels of silver
his stomach tosses and turns
over whether
it can contain all the delicacies
that are the fruit of the slave’s toil
the master agonises relentlessly
where the slave gets the strength to carry on
to live so much
to love so much
to laugh so much
to sing and dance so much
to procreate so much
to multiply so much
he frets over whether
the slave will have enough strength tomorrow
to pull the ox-wagon
the slave lives large
like a guillotine
over the absent conscience
of the makhulu baas
the master sees the writing on the wall
mene mene tekel ufasin
will he call the slave
to explain the dreams that haunt him?
A Tribute To My Heritage
If you want to know who I am
look with me
at the bubbling waters of the Limpopo
you will see my image
blacker than the night
darker than my shadow
for I was drawn in Africa/eden
coloured by the sun black
I dyed my hair in the Black Umfolozi River
it was combed by the Mozambique current
I circumcised in the Kilimanjaro
I emerged reborn
I climbed to the top of the Egyptian pyramids
to be transfigured by the stars
I solved the riddle of the Great Sphinx
by speaking in an ancient language
I have known the man in the moon
since time immemorial
he illuminated my path
as I wandered in the Namib desert
on the banks of Uthukela
I danced ubungoma
with the ancestors
I was humbled
by the beauty of the Zulu maidens
in the Umhlanga Reed Ceremony
in the mystic Lake Funduzi
I was initiated in the ways of prophets
I passed with distinction
I am the slave that survived the Middle Passage
to become master of my soul
and inscribe my legacy
on the Senegalese sands
on the back of Sarah Baartman
I carried the cross of her descendants
who lived
to tell the story of crucifixion
I lead the way with the stuff of Zulu kings
in the Holy Mountain of Nhlangakazi
I inherited
the Kingdom of Ezulwini
on the chest of Ukhahlamba
I played umlabalaba
with the stones that rained
from the prayers of Queen Modjadji
in the royal court of Moshoeshoe
I freely dispensed justice
with the wisdom of Solomon
in the winter of the Zimbabwe Ruins
I basked in the summer
of the colourful Ashante cloth
from the clear sky blue heavens
I drained the rain
to water the eden vineyards
the tales I told in the fireplace
are longer than the Nile
they remain tattoed in blood
in the caves of the Khoisan
I am the regeneration of the spirit of Hintsa
in my veins flows the blood of the Massai warriors
I am the warrior spirit
that guided the Cetshwayo regiments
in the War of Isandlwana
before the snake ascended the altar
the lion and the lamb
grazed on corn and seeds
on the palm of my hand
I caught the mopani worms
before the earliest birds
and composed with them the first melody
before dawn
together we sang Imbube
choreographed the wind and the trees
and navigated the distant horizons
I planted the seeds of the Morula tree
and showered under waterfalls of milk
from Cape to Cairo
I carved the path for future generations
and spiced the Indian Ocean
with the salt of my sweat
I sprayed Bhambata with war intelezi
and shielded him in the forests of Nkandla
I am the Father
the San and the Khoi spirit
I came before sound and light
when God discovered Eden
I discovered God
When Poets Vomit From Humble Pie
When poets vomit from eating humble pie
and are choking in their own lines
I declare a moratorium
no more poems
about revolutions
still in progress
no more poems
when yesterdays revolutionaries
are spitting in the graves of martys
A Very Important Announcement
This is his master’s voice
By a special decree of the ruling class
We interrupt your victory celebrations
To inform you
A black future has been cancelled
Until further notice
And your 1994 freedom has been delayed
By another thirteen years
Because the wabenzis and yengeni drivers are on strike
And your retired revolutionaries
Are still on holiday
During this period
In between caviar and champagne and socialist cigars
They shall sign binding freedoms
With the IMF and the World Bank
On your behalf
And the Esteemed Governor of The Reserve Bank
Shall reserve the right
To withhold your wealth
In the interest of foreign capital
And good governance
Martyrs
Shall be killed again
Without being resurrected
In the meantime
You suckers can continue bingeing
In your orgy of self-mutilation
To feed your hunger for true freedom