Bibliography

Putuma; Koleka

Collective Amnesia.
for zonke izinto ezikhunjulwa umzimba wami

Bam; Zizipho

Sunflowers for My Lovers.
for the izithandwa who arrived softly, izithandwa ezifika ngobusuku

Ebusuku, After Nine.

for amajita x

Nawe, Bekezela
Bekezela, kuyeza nakuwe
kodwa, nawe 
					B  e  k  e  z  e  l  a...

God forgive her sweet heart. Poor little baby
She thought the gray Stanley flask & blue denim pants would be nice
As a way for her to see and find herself in other women
After all she is a woman of her time
Quietly, a moment of innocence
She yawns and I think her face is beautiful
But don’t all women look gravely fragile in the morning?

Her hair is useless. Still desirable, however
I ponder the same way on the decline of Fathers
Too, on the sound waves that rise above our bodies
My limbs go heavy with blood
Have I forgotten how to make love?

Outside the sky is magnificent. Our bodies burn like stars
Explosions into nothing
Always blue
We thrust our fates together but there are explosions in the sky
And that is enough for today

I close my eyes. I see not night
I am kept behind curtains of blood
and my limbs are heavy
for such love-making is the art of the walking dead
So I wait. Soon
The night will fall upon us like a death sentence

When I consider how my light is spent…
I repent, repent,
repent. 

“I don’t like your tone. And take your hands out of your pockets, uthukile yini?”
She smiled. Her eyes pregnant with innuendo. I contemplated if she were really flirting with me?

Kulamalanga, even when I find time to experience calm, I feel as if I were being swept by a tempest. She did not speak much but when she did,  I only recall my imagination stumbling over every precise unevenness of the surface of her light, yet turbulent skin. I now think that this may be due to my desires, which, even if expressed wrapped in a charismatic tragedy, are nonetheless violent because they are always repressed. So, sometimes it is through encounters with Black women, such as this young woman I met yestermorning, that I live my inner scenes and desires. S’funny how black women can fold time into money with a simple, seductive look.

*Capitec: Payment +R60.00 into MAIN ACCOUNT; Ref Nonks; Avail R61.38-Nov. 23:03  Info: Whatsapp 067 378 2849

The next morning, the clock struck at nine o’clock. I went to take my place at the taxi rank line. I am going to Braamfontein.

Inkondlo, Untitled*

Upon arrival: MTN Taxi Rank.
an endless turnover of Wretched , Black Souls.
Monologues and begging recitals 
of iPhara
I now know it by heart.
One begs me for ishumi but he lacks 
Sincerity?
I look at him and I have nothing,
nothing at all to say, but:
“Next Time!”

I crossed Ntemi Piliso Street 
with nothing on my mind and started walking towards Braamfontein
over Mandela Bridge,
towards premature, educated feminine youths that wear bowed-legs

One can tell if a woman is from the squalor of the township:
pert, live, arrogant, beautiful. So
on the other side of the Bridge 
I picked her from the black-bundle,
slow-walking it were:
an anti-climatic scene after Sunday’s excesses.

Around me
Darkies from Mozambique busied (fed) themselves:
painting the walls, that one plumbing and the other selling this and that.
Darkies from further away: Pakistan, Ethiopia, elsewhere,
screen the Black mass
suspicious, looking from inside the 
Matchboxes
from which they sell mobile phones. 

Yesternoon;
oMageza gestured in half form,
at the rhythm of the setting sun.
Pointing over there and pointing that way. 

I, having accepted that yet another Black day has passed, surrendered with my full weight. Now seated at the back of iSiyaya. I am going home. Fuck... Another day in Jozi CBD, so nausea was the obvious prognosis. Deeper, in my cotton-picking-mind, I softly thought and returned to that beautiful black woman I confessed my affection to earlier. The lives of Darkies like us turn in a way that bar us from any possibility of love. The contrasting age of our youthful faces pull us apart from any other remaining possibility. She was working, I was only passing time, waiting for Thabo. 

In that taxi, I sat with the Black hole of my inner-world, where I derive my prose, poetry, trauma, non-being and all else. 

On and On, 
iSiyaya carries us to our homes.
The sunset is ruined
and maybe nex’tof’next week-
the rest of my life perhaps-
I don’t know-
but I’ll still need to return to the sights of Blackness.
Black people.
So I can again
consider how my light is spent. 

I left her in town yesternoon,
having refined and perfumed  her black skin.
She and another Black man
eventually gave up on small talk as the sun gave way to yesternight,
and money was exchanged 
for an Open vagina. 



While she busied (fed) herself with men,  
and gave freely of her body;
I sat squeezed in a 4-4 mas’hlalisane formation,
I was going home.

The women in the taxi smelled lovely,
whiffs of lavender and Fish & Chips.

I thought, 
“What happens in the mind of the Darkie? 
Those natives, Chiconela and Nstika will have to enlighten me again on the psycho-analytic readings of Black people.”

I sat at the back of the taxi,
let out a severe sigh and 
I delighted in the feminine smell.

Yesternight, I stood with my shoulder undivorced against the rough wall, as the alchemist does with his crucible, and watched with an ever-lasting gaze the blue-black, projected Mountain. The smoke of the cigarette curling about my face, and cushioned and tended to in-between my still fingers, the gwai itself, a lazy punchline.

It looked as if it had just fallen; this Mountain, spontaneously out of the vast pocket of God’s sky, as he wasn't looking. Perhaps as he was accounting for all di Naledi stretched across the sky, or perhaps tending to my registration and fee-block nonsense. Nonetheless, yesternight I sought to write this. This very thing you read right now. As I stood, I wept in gratitude of Our Brother, to whom this penning shall be dedicated to. As well as that carved rock, torn of God thyself, thy rib chipped and fashioned into this world in the form of this beautiful, dark Mountain. Yes, I stood there, and believed that even the sky ought to have bones, and that those too will rise. How fortunate am I, to behold such novelty?

Yesternight, I stood on the balcony. Second floor, Blue Block, Kopano Residence.

I stood there, a lonely solitary figure in the liminals of heaven and earth, blowing pale exhales into the infinite yet a constant expansion between theMountain and I. I stood there, My Friend, and felt my body rage a tempest against my sanity. I felt my body negotiate the politics of melancholy with the golden threads of introspection. Oh, My Friend, this time I choose to not say a lot.

Not this time, President Lukhele. Not yet will I tell them of the nights you addressed us, with that sly sneer of yours. For now, not yet, my child. I shall not write what I like.

But there is order here, however slight.

Freedom, as it takes off, very softly…very human.

So, My Friend, as you read this, take my hand and trust me, as I tell you of Our Brother. Our Brother, who hails from Soweto.

Kwathi ke kaloku ngantsomi.

My Friend, all was well, eventually.

And so, the remaining fragments of this tale shall be entrusted to the good-faith of the kind tenants of Kopano Residence. Those who held me in silent turmoil. To the sacred spirit of Brotherhood and Gratitude, I defer this penning. As you read this, My Friend, remember your own kindness. Be kind to me. And greatly so, I inspire you too, to seek the tenants of love, brotherhood and gratitude.

This will certainly take time-

I will pity your patience and grace.

As you are, as you sit with these words, you at all times plead to take and hold my untrusting hand. Do not let go. Not yet. This will take time, but I want to assure you that there is order here, very fragile, very human.

Fleeting the moment, then no longer…

Sweat and tears carved into the floor of that Steve Biko Student Union Building

Sad heartbeats of me and my sisters and my brothers, reeked for weeks to come..

… and now? still, of my sleepfull face. Burdened, Heavy.

So here am I, a single black pigeon on the street, seeking perpetually the constant, never ending embrace of the empty, constant sky…and just like these words, it becomes light,

flight, and there it goes, fleeting earth..

Kwathi ke kaloku ngantsomi..

This story escapes with me from Johannesburg on the 5th of February, to Cape Town, and should it find its acute touch and entry beyond a soul and place beyond you and I, then let it be done through your will My Friend, and not mine.

“Bade lam, umnandi?”

“Ahh bade lam ngimnandi, wena?

“Sweet wonke Bade. Eish, k’sasa ngiyaland(a) mnganami”

“No stress. Uyazi sisonke mnganam.”

Indeed, Our Brother said Sisonke. And that it would be perpetually so, stretched across the minutes and hours of an entire month.

My Friend, there is Order here, very faint, very fragile, very human. As it recollects itself in the fragments of my dazy memory, it remains pure. Untainted by hunger. Untainted by the erosion of poor students like me. This order, My Friend, persists like the trembling light of my mothers candle in Joburg, praying for the shelter of ithemba lakhe lokugcina. Realise, My Friend, realise as you read this, that I am still alive. You are not sitting with a dead being. You are not in communion with a ghost of that occupation. This place I write from, this place I write about has left its mark on me, despite the delicate attention and care I took towards my face and body to hide UCT’s shame. In my early days, living in a world of constant running and mystery, the kind hands of the women in that Dining Hall received me.

Yesternight, as I stood with a sincere gaze towards the Mountain, it occurred to me that,

purely, no surely, My Friend,

This life of mine belongs not only to me.

For without the kindred boldness of poor, wretched revolutionaries

torn from Langa, Philippi, Soweto and elsewhere-

who denied, with a motherly fiercelessness: my Hunger and Apartheid.

to receive my prayers from God, a forced landing!

on their burdened breasts,

to the incorruption of my hungered mouth– yes, yes!

Where would I be,

My Friend?

Home for me was by the day at the mercy of this Village that refused to abandon me.

“No job is worthy!

they said,

the hunger of their child…

an exiling of black students…

fucked-up non-residence of this housing crisis shit…

and the racist verdict of the oppressor and settler! Jy ma se poes!”

they said.

so they refused,

at the crow of the cock,

at the decline of the day and fathers

yes they refused, My Friend,

to let go of me.

r e m a i n ing u n se e n..

wiping my delicate, soft face, of its sad sad sorrows…

So there were many nights that were afforded to my body, that I spent with a cigarette caressed in the cushion of my fingers, looking up, looking up to the mountain. And oftentimes, a stream of nothing but everything trickling down, trickling down the softness, the delicate softness of my black skin. My kaffir body forgot, this Mountain endured, and the memories that carved tears on that Steve Biko floor, lingered still…

Morning,

Mourning My Friend.

Some mournings were lighter, much more gentler. The 6-ply traditional-print blanket I slept on, a humble prevention of my complete submergence into that concrete floor, lay heavy on me, would affordme the grace of the fragile morning hours.

But there were awkward mournings, My Friend. The air in my lungs would sit heavy like wet wool. My arms would tremble with anxiety. Too frail for a heavy blanket. And Our Brother, Our Brother would rise beyond the silenced, snoozed scream of the alarm clock, late for his meridian scheduled class, as all things do for responsible, young bras from Soweto with the dawning of responsibility.

We would rise. Our Brother and I. Our Brother, to his Meridian Obligation. I, to my drug-dazed unplanned doings

…because, My Friend

I had to rise with him, for he could land with his sleepfull feet-

crush my sleeping skull on his first landing!

therefore I had to rise with him

the quiet fragments of the previous day ripened a silent buzz in the mourning morning air,

poured onto the concrete floor is the sun of the Rondebosch haze-

so on and on, we go to the shower and back

to the one-room.

Ready?

Yes, ready and dressed! for at Noontime everyday

Our Brother would soon leave, which forced my exit too.

He? On and On to Upper Campus. Me, nowhere and everywhere.

Only the fortunate few know where they stand. Us,

We were left behind, unregistered in the world of the

Deserving…

and so My Friend, there were mornings when he left, and depression befriended me, became my companion. Depression comforted me, wrapped itself as my second on the stitch of my blue conti. With my full consent, it minimised me to an idle frolic, a wandering ghost of the campus the the grand city, percolating to and fro.

To kill time, waiting for Our Brother to be returned from the land of the living. My Friend, you are now here with me, giving me your time, so take these words not, as words that are weak of motive. Listen to me, be here with me. Yes, it is true, My Friend, I would idle at the guidance of a depression that befriended my lonely soul. Pain becomes home when you allow it to visit you oftentimes. That is what a sad, sad unforgiving pain does to you.

And at the break of dawn, finally, Our Brother would arrive, Our Brother would finally come home. So would I, seeing my disguised figure through the reception, to the room, then the furthest, finite point of Kopano. Smoking… pale air oppressed the air in my lungs as I exhale it’s fragments towards the Mountain. An accompanying, a soft accompanying I feel on my soft, delicate skin, a tear trickle as I exhale towards the nightstands.

And back I would return to the single room of Our Brother to seek some sleep. As I pen this, at this very moment I write this, it occurs to me that by taking me in, that Our Brother forfeited his time and comfort that would afford his soul contemplation, his mind some peace of mind, and his introspections, an ease of careless expression and childlikeness.

We sang softly, Our Brother and I. Oh, the soft, sudden calling of iGwijo.

One morning, he stood showering in the stall right next to mine. I broke out in song, an appeal to Our Brother,

“Nkulunkul’emuhle njaloooo”

Spirited he cried back, “Uzungiph’amandlaaaa”

I felt as my voice soothed my warm throat, a warm stream slid down on my soft, delicate face. No my friend, it was not the water. The pipes cried with me, as Our Brother carried me in song,

I wept,

My Friend, against my sinking pockets,

I wept,

My Friend, by gratitude, tenderly so, for such patient brothers

yes My Friend, I prayed and asked of friends of kinder natures,

I feared anything otherwise. So I prayed for love,

My Friend. I prayed for love.

I wept,

My Friend, heavy of a bold burden cast on oMama–

the risk against the futures of their own children

I wept,

My Friend, against iGwijo with Our Brother

I wept,

of those at Glendower still and those further in their own homes

I wept,

My Friend, of Soweto and it’s living Uprising

I wept,

My Friend, I cried that mourning.

Our Brother took care of me. Not as a duty, but as a river does the blood shed in ‘76, to the mother sea of todays time. I thank him for that, My Friend. Our Brother allowed me to rest with him. Our Brother, you opened your doors for me, and made space for me in your untidy ecosystem of your own life. To eat what was yours. Not only the crust, oh no My Brother, but you gave me the center too.

One day, many, many days into the future, we will sit down and I will tell you what you did for me. As I pen this, I do so softly, as an image fading into the mirrors of my mind. There is order here, very faint.

My Brother, you cared for my books. You cleared your shelves for my books. You cleared your space for my books and allowed isiwasho sam into your sacred space. You, My Brother, love me. Anyone that cares for my books, cares for me in ways they will not even begin to understand. You have made space for my poor soul, for you made space for my words. My library, My Brother, is a physical tether to my spirit. You knew that too.

“Bade lam, Sisonke.”

I am thankful. Ngithi ngiyabonga to those beyond you, My Brother. Thank you, to those who raised you, My Brother. To those too, like Our Brother, who stretched their hands towards their wretched, disgarded friends when threw us out like kaffir-rubbish. Oh, the UCT Housing Crisis. I am thankful to those streets in Soweto, those Soweto streets that refuse to be left out of any liberation of the Student.

From 1976 to 2025. From Vilakazi to Rondebosch. Gomora to Tembisa to Soweto. Sisonke.

6.

Thank you for spending time with me, My Friend. As you spent time with my words, so did you with the fragments of my soul lost during those nights.

I told you, there would be Order here.

very human, very fragile, very human

So come..we are going to

Soweto, Soweto,

khwela khwela! We are going to Soweto!

to give thanks, oh a many many thanks

for raising this boy

for imparting in him, the

revolutionary spirit that recognises brotherhood before law,

and Love before Apartheid’s scars.

for imparting this boy, with the courage of those that took to the Streets-

the blood red revolutionary love by those we now call, oMalume!

a love, that would toi-toi against anything that sought to come my way to

break my bones, crush my quest for a free education, and

my love for free knowledge for ALL.

1976-2025

chu! chu! Chu!

Soweto for Gomora

Chu! Chu!

Chu!

to Kaapstaad

Chu!

Chu!

chu!

Khwela Khwela Mama!

Sonke we are students of Soweto

and we are going to fetch our Freedom!

7.

Yesterday, Our Brother returned to Soweto.

That is how I came to find myself on that balcony, throwing a steady gaze at the blue-black, projected mountain. I were there to say Goodbye. He needed to see some woman in Graca-Machel before his final departure, Our Brother said. I asked if I might finish my cigarette first on the balcony, consequently binding our singular exit.

Our Brother agreed.

Of course, Our Brother agreed. So there I was, standing there.. Believing that I was the only person in the whole world to behold such love.

When I returned to his room, I knocked and opened the door to an empty room. I peaked through the cold darkness: on the floor, lifeless boxes, the bed sheetless, abandoned toiletries elsewhere and my silver earring on the table. The lights were off. Our Brother were off to his final greetings…

I smiled, closed the door, and as I walked towards the Kopano reception, I wondered how many souls have been imparted by his love….

“Wena Mqundu! Voetsek Ggah!”

Lightskin xhosa baddie red-hot in the morning. Her face I mean, she was visibly annoyed! An artwork of irritation. Anyone could tell that she was not a miss to be bothered, especially by a dirty, shabby homeless coloured man. Where I am from, if a scene like that were to explode in a taxi-rank like this one, it would draw the attention of every woman and man present, with everyone having a line to add (under their breath), and in a way summon the respect of the disrespectful nkabi-wannabe taxi drivers and of course, she would naturally to be the topic of laughter and immortalised in the taxi gossip for the rest of the morning, as the minibuses run as cockroaches out of the kasi, to Sandton, Waterfall, Randburg and further.

Alas! This wasn’t Joburg.

Well, obviously eJozi we do not have as many, no, not even half the number of beautiful Xhosa women and a general concentration of Xhosa-speaking people generally, so naturally, we do not have vulgar assault of poverty’s voice smacking our faces while we are trying to buy airtime emakuleni in the morning. Or trying to zama ipondo in a taxi rank! Perhaps that is why people are just generally nicer in Joburg. Admittedly, homelessness and displacement are not as ripe as they are in these Cape Town streets. Here, in Cape Town, you will occasionally have to negotiate a homeless man’s eyeballs two centimeters from your lips, begging, as you pay at a spaza. Right in your face mfethu! You learn to ignore them, sometimes. In Jozi, we are spared from that. Our problems are different, you see. So when intomb’enhle yomXhosa donning her all black, skin-tight Truworths uniform, giving her an aura above that of a retail-employee, and a face that traps and delights the unconscious, idling gaze and soul of any man, when that lady mfethu dropped her inherent-Xhosa verbal nuke onto that man, I understood where she was coming from, you see.

But let me tell you something about my luck: it is much kinder than it needs to be.

Yesternight, during one of my mundane walks, I bumped into a former partner of mine. A former flame- on her way to fetch her pizza from Romans. Eish mfethu, this one… Nonetheless, you know how it goes with exes: a slight awkwardness, a puzzle and talk around the dance of nostalgia, and finally: ignoring things we pretended never happened. Anyways, we got around talking about home. I said to her that I am thinking of returning home. Not to 1632, not Alexandra, where boys are born and unmade every Friday night. Back home. My mothers home. A morning led by goats to the green fields. A calling to oGogo substituted for a Friday routine church service. Be with my people ekhaya.

I also said to her that it is time I learn my tongue. Actually learn and speak my language.

We shared a subtle laugh at the fact that once upon a time I had concluded and labeled it "Patriarchal bullshit”. Nigga like me once labelled my Xhosa tradition a whitemans, outdated folklore fore those who couldn’t afford data. I turned my being against going to the Mountain. The rebirth of the ritual. A poetry skinned into my body. My tongue reawakened.

Now I am fully convicted. I know. I can feel my ancestors guide my pen as I write. Politely, softly, gentle. Shaking me softly as Mama woke me up during cold, grey, rainy school afternoons I slept too long. To accept that my penning is not just a gift, but a calling from my people. And now every story I write narrates itself, nudging me back home.

She just sat there and looked at me. Sweet eyes. Interrupted me seldomly. A happenstance of flirtation fused in memory, I felt the shared understanding that we have done a lot of growing, you know? The both of us. And that somewhere behind her sudden, yet cautious smile, that she is proud and happy for me.

As I watched her walk back towards that jozi-cbd-looking-like, soul-tsiping building that is Tugwell, I stood there, like a statue, with my friends now around me. Smiling like a fool.

❀❀

“Sundiqhela, Lufefe!”

.....a shy, shared gaze of our eyes.

“Wait, what does that mean?”

….I am trying to be iCleva

A sneer and then a chuckle. We both smile.

“Uyadika, Lufefe!” as we sat on the bench earlier. She hasn’t changed at all. She flirts the same old way…

❀❀

Then, she was gone. I do not know what happened. But my heart did.

Anyways, thank you for reading ramblings. This was between me and you. May you be spared from the vexation and from being phoxa’d by (UCT) Xhosa women and their ill-humour. Ay, the wrath of a Xhosa, earth baddie. Also mfowethu, may your ancestors call your name with pride.

Buyela ekhaya. Even if it is only in your heart and mind.

-Untitled & My Dearest Friend-

I revisit a conversation I had with my friend, Malik. I spend too much of my slow mornings and the sun-scapes inbetween thinking about him to not proclaim my love for him. And for what is this body of mine, if it shall continue to live on this earth without speaking of its truth. In a search for something in my mind, perhaps words that are fitting of truth, I realize that there are only a few of this world, people and places, that can hold my hand, accompany me patiently, release me outside the gates of abstract enclosures.

Places that only exist in the in-betweens of our world and words. Where if they were real, the green grass beyond the gate would be just fine for me to walk upon bare, soft enough so that I can carry on without looking at my feet. A kind of sensation that demands of me, no hesitation and caution. And perhaps it would take me with it, weaving a neat pathway that delivers me to a house, or perhaps a room. Where if it were real and not a fantasy of my imagination, I would walk into it with the same grace I opened the gate, with the same softness I sidled the grass, the same understanding I had of the garden’s safety & refuge. Where if it were real and not a figment of my imagination, I would enter without looking back with my body and down with my head and hands, as I pull down the handle–shutting the door. For there lives no fear in me of being misunderstood in this house, asserted that I will not be held hostage by God knows what.

If this place were real and not a figment of my imagination, perhaps it would be a room, not a house. For a room is cold in wholeness when the weather suggests so, and also humid at once. A house would be too grand (perhaps impersonal) and would be too complicated. And therefore misunderstood by its guests. If this room were real and not just something I would kill for, I imagine that I would find him there, with his chest open to the door, alive to it,, and his eyes running to it in joyful anticipation of his friend. I imagine that if it were real, we would hug and become one body, as we always do. Sit down while still looking at each other. Our hands feeling for the sides of the chairs behind us first, guiding how our bodies will sit. We would speak, perhaps he in Shaangaan and I, in isiXhosa. All without misunderstanding. And we would begin to talk about faith, without calling it that, as we always do.

As I sat two weeks ago, and watched the rainbow kiss the township, a place one would never imagine to find its end, the same way I found my way to this room, I stopped imagining and realized that indeed, it is real. It is real, because he too, is real.

-Letters of the Sky-

The sky stretches from Alexandra to Maputo, all at once. The seamless tether, the only blanket that holds him and I together. Where in some kingdoms, the sole witnesses to the birth of an infant, raised to it as if a King’s cub, before it will be lifted to the kingdom gathered as witness. And at the same time, wraps over the face imposed of death and nothingness in another town. The Sky that holds everything without question; without expectation. And if it so happens that those that live in-between it can lo longer find strength to stay afloat, the sky lets them, gently and softly, down to earth. That way, it holds all that rises. It cushions all that falls.

I pen this down, a man sick in body, beyond the touch of sedation and the cure of chemical medicine. At this hour, this body of mine demands of this world, so much more than that to live. It was in the quiet of a hospital, where I realized that my body can only live if it can speak and write. To know again the touch of a hug from my friends. To know kindness and slowness from I that lives in it. Only if it too can know a certain care. Love that happens without expectation; without question. Just like the sky. One that happens for its own sake.

Perhaps it is that, that drove me to cast his eyes upon the heavens that hide behind the sky, and call out to uThixo. To call to him to remember me. To say my name again, so my body could restore itself to its former grace. I thought that if it is true that indeed he too, is real, perhaps as I watched the sky, in relentless seeking of life, something would’ve loosened its embrace from it, and find it’s fall to me, and save me. If not that, perhaps uThixo is of logic and reason. I asked that he may, in hopes to console my dying heart, send with the sky a prayer that will stretch itself over the dwellings of Maputo, eMozambique. So that when my friend seeks the sky, he would know that I am thinking of him.

-Untitled-

When life allows for the reunion of our bodies, so that we may sit and talk, I will tell to him that I have found a new faith. I will tell to him that it does not solely rest on uThixo, and his promises. I will remind him of a conversation we shared on the mountain, when he had told me that faith is what we would seek and cradle, when the world has betrayed us, and asks of us to not question it. It is what we would seek, when we feel and know the corners of the world have shut us out, and we know of nowhere to run to. It is what we want to embrace when we have been struck by confusion and cannot ask God of his accountability. Firstly, I will tell to him that uThixo is not like that. He cares for his people and for their struggles. I will tell him that in his sentiments, I have found truth. And not met with misunderstanding.

But I will also speak to him, about the faith that I found and know. One that is informed by love and brotherhood, and orange skies on Table Mountain. Things that happen for their own sake. A hope that kinder things can happen, in the place of doubt. Kinder teachings of hope that found their way to these Verwoerd dwellings through rainbows in the sky. A rainbow that people have been seeking its end for all their reasons. A hope that has landed on us, when they probably thought it never would. That iKasi will never kiss the heavens. A hope that makes it stretch its arms to the sky, and hold hands with the sun.

A hope that touches Alex, eMpumalanga to Maputo. I hope that whenever he looks to the sky, he knows that I am thinking of him. Knowing that when I seek the sky and see that the township has kissed it and, too, hides the end of the rainbow, I can remember that he too, thinks of me.

Perhaps, a shared communion.

Outta My Cotton-picking Mind

Here I am again, finding myself writing about my recent experiences in Alexandra. This time around, I returned to my home, with a silent heart, and heavy questions. It felt as if I were looking into a mirror, that reflects not only the busy buzz of the streets, but the person I was, and I am becoming. Perhaps in the cracks of my identity, there lives a tension, between the person I once was, and the person I am becoming. Walking the streets I once knew nothing about, I felt as if I were flipping pages of an unread book, each page erasing the words it once carried; some of them of course, familiar stories. The avenues of Alexandra, as chaotic as they are, hold a familiar tranquility - a place that reflects loud brews and the hum of imbalance. They know too, the sounds of laughter, the flaits of amaJita and not to forget, the clatter of dice on a wooden square board. As I always do, I echoed from the back of an Avanza taxi, “Shot left, Grootman!” and there I was, at the corner of 18th Avenue. Ekhoneni, where former friends know contemplation not as an escape, but as communion with the buzz and noise.

I was met by the graceful, and of course, manly greetings from those that live and love in my heart. Olova Ekhoneni. Nothing much has changed, beyond the faces of those that walk these streets, a bittersweet happenstance before my eyes. The boys I once knew to be that, just boys, were now men who held cigarettes in between their two fingers, and the curious eyes had now turned narrow, perhaps against the smoke and weight of their thoughts. Just as I am. I know what drives a man insane. Somewhere beneath my cotton-picking mind, I now understood that these men were much more than what met my eyes. Just like I am, I began to understand that they too, were traumatised reflections of my own being. I would say broken, but my friend Malik taught me against that word. In saying that, I knew that they too, just like I, they too were not idle men. They too, were what I would make of philosophers without podiums and rigid scholars whose wisdom has found its way, unguided, spilling over in fragments I do not wish to begin to comprehend. I am okay with not understanding that.

It is true indeed, that the township that once cradled me, has not matured to be what I want it to be. In so many ways, it remains the same, still alive with aboMama and oSkwiza and conversations that weave philosophy and survival into the same breath. This place that I call home, is not one I mistake for romantic notions, there isn’t much to romanticize about. Yet in its raw and unyielding happenings, as it unfolds in its kindest forms, I still want to say: It is my home.

If you were to ask me about why it is that there are Olova Ekhoneni, I would not know where to start. I could tell to you however, about those that are close to my heart that have found their way there. Yet, there is a truth I cannot even begin to deny. It all made sense to me, that while much of this world we know, writes off places like my home, often knowing them as broken and ugly, what these people miss are the profound depths of thought that lives and loves here. Just like your boring, predictable and sophisticated spaces of Whiteness - We also think. We feel. We ponder. We are reflections of each other. Olova Ekhoneni, who were boys I once ran with barefoot, are no longer what I want them to be. I was very selfish in my perception of them. Some of them, now wear scars on their Black bodies like armor; while others that my mother knows by name now carry guns instead of books. I write that knowing that I was chosen by softness, not the other way around. They live like swords that demand constant sharpening, hardened by the unforgiving grip of survival, and have become men shaped by the hunger and poverty that knows Us by name. And yet, I love them. I love them because it was through these boys, where I learnt that whatever little you may have, you do not eat alone. A yellow bag of Nik Naks torn open in the corners of these streets becomes a communal feast; which is the point of departure for this perspective I share with you.

It all made sense to me, that it was through these people, that I understood the philosophy and kindness of breaking bread. It took me to sit with Olova Ekhoneni to finally make sense of the humanity within us, that nourishes, not just through food, but the abstract kindness of offering, and saying, “You are not alone, sisonke Bra yam.” My beloved friend Malik once asked me a question. He asked, “Do you suffer from survivor's guilt?” The answer does not need me to say it, it is clear. I say that because I still, as I am now, suffer from grief. I grieve for the little boys and innocent girls who never got to dream beyond these corners. I grieve for the potential that has been so violently stolen from those that I love, as I watch it crumble, becoming collateral in a world that only has closed doors and keys lost. I also grieve for my name; myself. Perhaps for the parts of my being that have surrendered to that place - innocence, hope and an unjaded belief in the simplicity of right and wrong. If I did not have the words, I would only live today, in your hearts and memory. You make sense of that in a way that suits you.

I know now, that there is no place for romanticizing poverty. There lives no virtue in suffering. I am indeed, in search of my identity and perhaps it is something that does not ask for reckless seeking. I came back to Alexandra looking for something. In my cotton-picking mind, I thought I’d discover clarity, or closure. From what or fromm whom, I cannot begin to talk about. Perhaps it is the kinder happenstance of just a reminder of who I used to be.

This time, I was reminded of something before I turned back to my dwelling place. I carry with me, the wisdom imparted by Olova eKhoneni. Of once innocent boys, who grew up too fast for anyone's liking. Of boys who never stop dreaming; of streets and avenues that carry stories as sacred as scripture. It is here, eKhoneni, that I am reminded that even in the most broken and hardest places, we can make room, for love and wisdom. We are thinkers, dreamers and lovers of life in a way that is truly, inspiring.

The proverb might be true. In fact it is. You can take me out of the hood, but the hood will always live in me. Its lessons of life, hum quietly in my thoughts, perhaps a kind nudge that while the umhlaba and it’s people may try to define us by what we do not have, we are indeed, so much more. Just like you, we too are the architects of our own narratives, the philosophers of ekhoneni and poets of our own streets.

And so, as I leave these streets again, I take with me not answers, but questions that will rest in peace, in days to come. Questions born of the zol-filled corners and the echoes of laughter that potter about, even in the shadow of loss and pain. Oh Alexandra. Gomora. I love you.

I have now come back to my village, perhaps a vertical corpse, as I draw closer to the quiet conclusions of a saddening year.  The year has come and has stretched itself across the minutes and hours of my days, and it is now here, at home, where I can kindly recall; in sincere honesty, the figments of its unraveling. The hour of the clock that seemed ever so elusive in the slow town that is the Cape, has now begun to fall away, and now can afford me the peace of day, in the peaceful breath that is home. A pleasant grave, as the Cape seems to always feel like to me, a place where its people and those that live and love there can see and touch you in ways that both, caress and, as fair, inspire great depths of sadness and insanity. What an awkward relationship I have with that place. 

Now that I’ve returned, I can once again hear the soft hum of uBaba selling Amagwinya in the morning, and no longer am I met by the cool indifference of the lady at Kopano Dining Hall. If only she knew. I missed too, gazing my eyes upon the unsung sunsets of the Johannesburg skyline. In these small happenings, I can recall an intimate love and peace, which were of my life before all the seeking. Restless seeking, that is. Nonetheless, I know now that it is a skyline beauty that escapes the reach of my vocabulary. 

Alas, I longed to come home. It is here with the village that is my people, where the peeling fragments of my being had scattered, as if they had been awaiting my return – someone to come and make sense of them. I longed to come home, not only when I am inclined to write and write, but also in my bones; as if the act of calling upon it, could somehow restore me to a former peaceful knowing and understanding of my life. If perhaps it were the gazing of flats of Alexandra that invite deep reflection, or perhaps the romanticizing of a loved medina, then perhaps I could have known healing much sooner. Yet it is not the home of those dissolute buildings and unwalkable streets, but of the home I have been trying to make myself: The home that is me. I now know Ma, that in this village, is a place for me - a home that I can begin to realize, slowly, patiently and of course, together with our old friend that is Pain.

As I write, I reflect on my mother, as I always do, and the conversations that belong to the days to come. As I am, in the quietness of my bedroom, at this gifted moment I stand at this precipice, the questions and telling of experience while in the Cape, to my Mother . At this moment, my answer comes not in words, but in the quiet of my own soul. Should you find yourself unable to understand your boy no longer, then Mama, call me by my name.

That is because Mama wami, it is this village that is our home, where my name first learned isifundo sokuzethemba. Within the banks of my mind, too, there is a soft, yet still happening,  gentle unfolding, as the year’s experiences sink into a new understanding. I share vague memories of spending time with Malik and Welani - two similar spirits whose paths crossed mine in ways that feel like echoes from a Maskandi song. I cannot help but feel a graced gratitude and a gladness for the friendships I have known this year, even if I can't shake the feeling that most of my other ties that formerly held any relationship together have mostly, if not well, fallen apart. I cannot begin to justify any of the happenings,or demise of such relations. To be quite frank, I do not wish to do so. Nonetheless, I am grateful for having had such moments. The people that live and love in my heart,  now exist only in the silent depths of recollection, their laughter and presence fading more into the past while umhlaba uqhubeka, oblivious to its own amnesia. Oh, Call me by my name Ma, I am slowly losing bits of myself, breaking into pieces I cannot begin to pick up.

But there lives a day in my heart, a moment that refuses surrender. It is from a distant August afternoon, when my friends and I, under the spell of our quiet ritual and psychedelics - nothing unknown to three passionate people like us - wandered into Clarke’s Bookstore. Its modest rooms hide somewhere beneath the noise and life found on Long Street, of course, tucked away in plain sight. I now know too, Mama, that on that particular afternoon, under the guise of altered perception, the waves of my inner unraveling began to grow. It was there Ma, in that bookshop, that I found and came across a book, Investing in Your Child-Minder, on its cover, an animated image of a black middle-aged woman, in a maid’s uniform. I turned the book around, in hopes that the blurb would dispel my immediate disgust, only to be confronted by a blurb, with a picture of a black man in a black suit. Oh, black intellectuals. A quiet sharpness formed in my chest as I read on, each word slicing the already falling apart layers of my identity I had been so hard trying to hold onto. In that moment, I also felt a deep sense of sadness and hopelessness - a negotiation of my soul and intellect that was so deeply foreign to me. It was then, I first asked myself, Why?

I stood there and I wondered, if I too had given in plenty, so much of my life trying to be of myself, a person of a masculinity that was not my own; one that was not kind to me. I wondered too, whether if I had danced to the tune of power, aggression, and conquest, as if it were something inherently mine? Also, I think enough damage has occurred, in that English has become my way of receiving and thinking of the world. I no longer have an appetite really, to immerse myself in Whiteness and it’s questionable yet mostly vague and overly sophisticated sensibilities. Quite boring if you ask me. I can sleep very assuredly about that. It was then that I perhaps made a decision. If the world knows me as its’ comrade’ and ‘intellectual’, through only writing and speaking in a white man's language, minimizing the experience of our mothers and a patriarchy that is so violent, then Ma, please, please, please Mama, call me by my name.  If it also means that I have to reduce anything to a narrative that was never really about us – then no Mama, call me by my name. Call me by my name so I can remember that grace you knew when you first said it on a blessed night in Hillbrow.

Perhaps, a silver lining, a profound moment of reckoning and it soon became a fire in which everything I thought I knew about myself burnt away, leaving me naked and vulnerable. For a moment and a bit more, I believed  it was the universe that had prepared itself  to tell to me the lies and lies I had lived for so long, and in its unveiling, I found myself not empowered, but broken. I thought about the days lived, a fragile boy acting out a version of masculinity that was violent in its silence, angry in its restraint, and cold in its delivery. Whether it was for the world and it’s people or a subtle revolt against God, or perhaps myself, I do not know. But something shifted within me. A deep, painful understanding of a shift I could not understand. Due to the cruelty of this world of ours, I know now the cost of such a debt. Perhaps it was indeed, a silver lining, a profound moment of reckoning and it soon became clear to me that the fires I sought, were burning me and I could no longer hold onto whatever it is that made me believe it was worth it.

In days to come or maybe many more sunsets after that, I will learn to stand like a man again. For now, if you were to ask me about me Ma, I would tell to you that I no longer show up to the world anymore. I am sick ma. My being craves a sinister completion, as if the pieces of myself that once made sense no longer want to share a place with one another. I just have no interest in being a man this crazy world and its people demand of me. Not anymore. Now that I am home Ma, I want you to know the world I know still demands that I perform, still asks me to be something I no longer wish to be. The hardness that was once my armor now feels like a prison, a cage I can no longer afford to live within. Yet, here, in the village, there is a small solace. The peace I know of this place is not a solution, but a pause. It is a moment of rest before I must continue. 

But Ma, ngicela ungakhathazeki. There still lives on a quiet hope, in this gentle unraveling. On the thirteenth day of a particular month, I  have found a love that rescued me when it knew very little of it. I hope it too will embrace my name as my people know it. Perhaps, I can say to you, it is enough that I have come this far. Perhaps, it is indeed, Ma, enough that I have returned to the place where my name first grace, and gave it to the world through me. Where it was you Ma, who spoke into the world with tenderness and love. As I begin to become, I stand at a vantage point, where in the soft light of Joburg, I find that even the smallest of changes—the ones that seem insignificant at first—can make all the difference. To be softer, gentler, more honest with myself; these are the things I am learning to embrace, even as I mourn the loss of the person I used to be.

So when the world asks who I am, I will say this: Call me by my name. Not the name of the man I was, not the name of the one you wanted me to be. But the name I have learned to carry with tenderness, the name that holds within it all the quiet struggles, the soft reckonings, and the hope that, perhaps, it is enough. 

I initially considered exploring the themes of a political paradox, the nuances of Black liberation, and the ongoing struggles faced by Black South Africans. My focus then narrowed to the latter. I wanted to write about the books that stirred anger within me. I wanted to write about the stories of Samkelo and Sizwe that resonated deeply. If I had the time, I would write very highly of the works of Mafika Gwala. My thoughts were captivated with romantic preferences, which I wished to write about. As well as the lives of Black adolescents, Colored homeless people, and my beautiful girlfriend. I wanted to write and intended to cover all of these, but my reflections inevitably led me back to my own experiences in Alexandra.

I sought to write about rebellion, the books discussed with friends while we smoked weed and cigarettes, and the formative years I spent in Alexandra, where I first encountered the harsh realities of suffering and hardship. At the time, I could never have imagined that those childhood memories would ultimately drive me to write. It was these reflections that spurred me to confront the harsh realities of rape and violence inflicted upon children and mothers, and much more. I remembered the crowded lives in the townships, the fleeting nature of sex, the scourge of alcoholism, and the lingering effects of intellectual disillusionment within our community.

I wanted to revisit and write about the days of my childhood when my friends and I spoke about aspirations for much greater things, only to have those dreams often crushed. I wanted to address the subtle arguments my mother and I had about my future, as if that was not the only battle we were fighting. I longed to write about my childhood, the connections that anchored me to it, and the lessons and discipline imparted by my mother.

It would not be long after my 13th birthday, that I was presented with the opportunity to study at a well-established institution. Of course, at the generosity of Whiteness. This development was a source of significant anxiety for me, an unlikely preoccupation for a thirteen-year-old. I must have instinctively recognized that such spaces were not inherently welcoming to individuals like me. At home however, spirits were much kinder.  My mother frequently referred to me as “O’khethiweyo,” which translates roughly to ‘the chosen one’, a term that reminded me of the privilege bestowed upon me.  Amidst the anxiety, there were fleeting moments of excitement and joy, but I chose not to indulge them fully, as I was unsure of what truly brought me happiness. I also felt a profound sadness and guilt; sadness for leaving behind those I loved and guilt for knowing that some needed this opportunity more than I did. Nevertheless, my own hard work and determination gradually dispelled much of this doubt. 

I found myself unable to escape a deep and sorrowful reflection on the nature of our conversations and the stark reality that the possibilities we had so eagerly discussed seemed to be reserved solely for me. It was disheartening to realize that while we had all shared dreams and aspirations, these possibilities were never intended for anyone beyond myself. This painful realization marked the beginning of a profound acceptance of the true nature of my closest companions and the underlying dynamics of what would be of our relationships. It was as if the promises and dreams we had woven together were illusions, and the reality was a stark, lonely truth that I could no longer ignore. I also started to feel sad about my beloved Alexandra. I have always had a love-hate relationship with her. I hated her for what people thought she was and loved her for what she actually was. Home. 

Five years later, I found myself confronted by a profoundly difficult and unsettling circumstance that would reshape my life in ways I could never have anticipated. Whether by mere chance or by the will of a higher power, I encountered an immense obstacle at the end of my high school journey, one that would leave an indelible mark on my future. By that time, we had long since departed from Alexandra, and I had lost touch with many of the connections I once held there. My teenage years were largely spent at school, where I immersed myself in a mix of questionable behaviors and foreign sensibilities. My existence had transformed dramatically compared to the person I had been years earlier. I had acquired a new accent and developed niche tastes that revolved around idealized fantasies of life. Though I didn’t fully understand the changes within myself or the reasons behind them, I knew that those who knew me from home would no longer recognize me. It was solely that reason that I made little effort to rekindle old friendships and visited home only infrequently. I did not understand much, but the seldom intuitive enlightenment that allowed guilt and shame to visit me.  My high school years felt monotonous and formulaic, leaving me with scant memorable experiences.

During my final year of high school, significant events unfolded. I spent the majority of the year with my then-girlfriend, a relationship that I cherished deeply. Our breakup came when she had to return to Kenya, marking a period of intense personal turmoil for me. This was also the climax of my struggle with drug addiction, exacerbated by a profound depression and confusion. The events of May 2022 Michaelhouse pushed me to my lowest point, a complete rupture in my life. For the first time, I experienced overt racism directed at me with a venomous mix of hatred and resentment. I am not talking about your indirect and passive-aggressive type of racism. I am talking about the Kaffir type of racism. This encounter led to a profound loss within myself, parts of my being that I would never regain. Consequently, the remainder of the fixtures for that weekend were canceled, and we returned to Johannesburg the following morning. A modest triumph that felt personally significant to me.

In my quest for answers, I reflected deeply on my origins, on my time in Alexandra, and the friends I had left behind and had grown to completely disregard them. I recalled our youthful discussions about racism and the hatred we had known even then.

In my search for answers, confused and in spiritual agony,  I found myself turning toward Whiteness. It was the very same Whiteness I found myself seeking solace from the pain and torment it had caused me. Looking back, I now know that this only led me to encounter superficial empathy and pretense, as well as a deep-seated sense of inadequacy. These themes will become more evident in an open letter to St. John’s, titled The Burden of Whiteness to Take Care of Me, that I plan to share at a later stage.

Through this tumultuous journey, I sought healing and self-forgiveness, finding a degree of wisdom along the way. I didn't quite understand what I needed to forgive myself for, but its urgency was made apparent by more frequent feelings of guilt and resentment. I grapple with deep regret for having turned away from my people and my own childhood experiences, understanding now how their support could have been a lifeline. Instead, I sought comfort in the very whiteness that wounded me, compounding my own pain. This realization brings a profound sadness as I confront the ways I neglected the very connections that could have healed me, and how I turned towards the sources of my own suffering. But now one assertion remains for sure: I want to go back home!

Although my relationship with writing has always been ambivalent, marked by both love and resentment, my internal struggle with my sense of self has been far deeper. I always come back to my words and ask myself, “why do I write what I write?” I consider myself fortunate to have had the opportunity to read Law at the University of Cape Town. However, this privilege has not come without its own internal conflicts. I have grappled with doubts about the purpose of my pursuits, especially as my growing disdain for capitalism and neo-colonialism has intensified my inner turmoil. For now, I have come to believe that my life's purpose is to contribute positively to future generations, to champion justice, and to protect our democracy. Yet, I also dream of a future where my children are free from the same preoccupations and can instead indulge in the simpler joys of life without the weight of political strife. As well as all the other abstracts that challenge my sanity.

The regret is overwhelming as I reflect on how I overlooked the genuine connections and support that could have been a source of healing and strength. I feel a deep sadness for the missed opportunities to build meaningful relationships and for the ways I allowed myself to be drawn to the sources of my own anguish. This realization brings with it an aching sense of loss and an understanding of the complexity of my choices, leaving me with a heavy heart and a deep longing for the understanding and support I failed to embrace.

I hope that one day, I can write about kind brick-layers and respectful taxi-marshals, and not be sat down and compelled to write from the pain of being rejected by Whiteness.