Pan African Christian (pt 2)

20170416_203815.jpg

In my previous post I started out with a reflection on how I had recently gone for a Christian camp, and never really linked it to my questions on pan-africanism (if there ever was a word) and its relation to Christianity, well in my view.  The camp made me reflect on how far I have come as a young African female.

I started out predominantly a feminist, tomboy that I  am, being raised by a single educated, working mother fortified these  beliefs, especially in the face of close family who still do not believe in educating the girl child, But as the years went on and the most common form of feminism just then became violent abuse of the term and men feared us more as a liability as opposed to the fundamental belief that our founding mothers just wanted equality, I mean ratchet females who have abused this have made me distance myself a bit. By this I mean I am for equality of both sexes, because I am also aware that there are women who feed off these sympathies to find lazy ways to the lifestyles they want. A true feminist fights for equal opportunities to work for her dreams.

I stopped using my first name, not because it is not in my native language but with its every utterance it reminded me of the girl i had killed off when I became my own revolutionist in my own small world. It was a name given with much love and I will always appreciate that but when you are disillusioned in as much an intimate way as I have, from my understanding of my own colonial history to just how rigged the life game really is, you want nothing to do with the ignorant person you once were. Not just that but also the painful period of shedding the skin off your eyelids so you are forever seeing regardless of state of slumber or rest and the helplessness that comes with trying by all means not to be black tax to your older siblings and to as painlessly as possible emancipate yourself from the understanding of your mother who as much as who she is why you are so strong, it is also what you want to evolve from. With all that in mind, I chose another of my given name and people judge my decision in that it is disrespectful but I say it is my personal activism, and I have been blessed by some elders who respect the chain of activism.

With that I want to then bring up unfinished activism. I believe even Christianity was some of activism back when it started and as such over the years though not as much as we should have, it should be a movement of love, love shown to us by the saving Grace Jesus gave us by dying for us. So in that can we not find love for the queer, for the other beliefs and for the African who for centuries has been a minority in his homeland. I believe that following such a line of thought one can find themselves where I am, proudly a christian who believes that as Africans we need to love ourselves enough to know that as a continent we are more than enough to solve our problems, that by being proud of our diverse cultures we all come back to the spirit of Ubuntu which unites our struggles and should help us inspire each other. So comes some form answer to questions I raised in my previous post.

Like Angela Davis  explained how the legacies of the past are not static, but are there to help young activists to develop new strategies and give rise to new activism to help realize dreams that have not yet been fulfilled. I go about my day to day life finding new ways of activism that will get not just me but my continent to where we can be. So I will not apologize for not being the same African female I was when I initially emancipated myself.

 

 

Ambush

12523038_963475897064628_365837614231930843_n

I am a struggle child

Born behind invisible bars

Yet their putrid smell nauseates me

That which I can only see

Socialised to second guess my every second breathe

Worthy or not,deserving or not

I am that which was forced out

To run with the wind is to survive

To truly live is to go against the tide

So says the mind of mephitic surroundings

I am a struggle child

With the worst kind of enemy

False freedom, dangling freedom

Close enough for me to see

Feeding my hope and faith

Yet when I run for it, that which is mine

I find I outran my monkey chord

So I am choked back to submitting

The torture resumes, this time freedom a bit closer

I am a struggle child

Stuck in a cycle with blind counterparts

For I had to scrap my third eye open

To veraciously see the truth

In the depths of my struggle

I envy the blindfolds I once had

For they kept me ignorantly consuming their version of events

Safe and sound cuddled in ignorance

I am socialised to be educated

But I would rather be well acquainted with wisdom

Listen brother,start tearing off the blindfolds

The truth shall set you sincerely free.

Girl Unmasked

20160107_003031I love; truly and honestly

Words left unspoken

But with time they show

I worry; earnestly and purposely

Loneliness is left at the entrance

And my embrace you can shelter in through it all

Because I stitch myself up

Search and glue myself together

To make sure your head has a shoulder

And your thoughts and body warm too

I am all out of blessings

Nothing to spare

I think I am running low on my tab

If it weren’t so would I not have been enough not to break

Call me whatever, label me however

I believe you will need some good in your life

But by the time you realise I am not a bustop but your destination

How many more of you would have unmasked and exploited the girl

Shriveled up and a distant memory of sweet innocence that absorbed your darkness

I am that sin eater,  but not the forever kind.

When the hounds become your neighbors

20150510_142557Before they took out their machetes and started slashing away; I wish they would ask why. Why I packed everything to my name in a back-pack and trekked down south. Why I left everything I knew to venture into the big unknown, unpredictable world knowing that the certainty was uncertainty. I speak for that girl who was barely of age, who had to say goodbye to life as she knew it, putting faith in humanity and the rosary she held onto for dear life. It does not dawn on you until you are called off the pick-up truck, in the middle of nowhere, in the darkest hour of the night. Barely a swimmer herself her feet froze on contact with the limpopo, fear clouded whether or not the water was as cold as it felt. The strangers held hands, brothers in arms , brought together by the desperate need to escape. When the water reached her waistline, she knew there was no going back, if the infamous crocodiles did not get her, the tsotsis across the border might, worst case scenario, she would get arrested meaning safer transport to her seeking asylum. But at the back of her mind she felt like these were just the last kicks of a dying horse.

If they had only thought for a moment before they broke down her door, invading not only her personal space but destroying everything she had honestly earned through hard work and diligence. She escaped with just only the clothes on her back and memories of the sweet taste of what hope was as adrenaline had her rationally run and  not fight the armed men. When she did find safety she looked through the window to witness flames burn everything she owned, everything she was. Her asylum papers, groceries she had meant to send back home the next day . Her clothes, bank cards, furniture , her identity. The flames just got higher and higher and mercilessly devoured the hope and fruits of hard work she had painfully gathered along the years. Pain incapacitated her body, she did not cry, she smiled instead. She laughed hysterically, who would have known that it was not crocodiles in the Limpopo or the police she should have feared. It was the people; her fellow  Africans, the people who hired her, the ones who processed her to be a legal refuge, her neighbors, her church-mates. Her knees grew weak with laughter, she huddled herself into a little ball on the cement floor, giggling. She could not help but remember how she was homeless the first few months after she crossed over. She moved from shelter to shelter until her first paycheck came into effect. She remembered how happy she was the day they granted her asylum, that was the key to the life she had always wanted, to be able to dream and knew that if she worked hard enough, she could achieve anything. That was her lifeline and also the only thing the situation back home cold not engulf; HOPE. Now it was just smoke and ashes. Honesty and hard work proved to be inadequate to have the machete-men show her mercy.

Not a single tear rolled down her cheek, she laughed herself to sleep that fateful night. She thought,”I could have been killed or raped”, but that offered little consolation. She lay there feeling dead inside, all she wanted was to be able to dream,to have hope, especially in mankind. The very thing that delivered her from hopelessness was what destroyed her.

Ghosts from beyond

20150131_122204I thought if I went without a fight, they might have mercy on me

A silent tear drop is all I succumbed to

When I grow up I want a six foot wall around my house

Six foot high, six foot deep

With an enormous gate and a vicious dog

That’s the image I pin on my head rest

The dream I keep alive as they hurl me away

The first and last picture I see each day

Not some white picket fence

That’s someone else’s dream

Other people’s blood spilled just for that dream

I am not about to disrespect my forefather’s struggle

For they sacrificed more than they had to

For my freedom of choice not to flee

And be a parasite latching onto someone else’s dream

That is why I keep my dream alive

Working towards my six foot wall and dagga  house

Doesn’t mean I have to plunge my roots where I feed

I admit I might seem to duck the tide

But I am sticking to my original plan

I think because I went without a fight

They tied the chains twice as hard on me

God knows I try so hard not to disappoint you:

The spirits in the wind, fallen blood of my blood

You just do not understand

They have us by the hook, through their music and television

I know your blood boils as you witness us get so lost in the crowd

Yes I hear your echos, shadows I feel your anguish and fear your wrath

But my voice alone is not doing your purpose justice

I wish they could you call them back to the motherland

To rather die an honest people than to become of which we are not entitled to

I have tried before and failed oh spirit of my fathers

Now I have been blessed again

But I find myself falling for the mistakes I should learn from

I am afraid I will fail you again

After all you have done for me, an extraordinary love you had

Wipe my tears and grant me strength

As i write on skew words

Giving dimension to words you whisper to me at night

What if I become my words

Will you forgive my past sins

Yes I hear you loud and clear

I will keep up the fight fulfill my dream

Build my six foot wall around my house

And breed that dog to keep them out

Hopefully that will keep their clutch at bay

But if, or rather, when modernity comes for me or blood of my blood

We promise to fight with all we have.

 

Dear She-Cray-Cray

DSCF0139Its that time again; after midnight and you have probably put your phone on silent to ensure some beauty sleep, oh so I tell myself. I decide to take the woman’s voice and leave a message. I know you have work tomorrow morning but I just finished my night shift. Its been a few days since we have conversed, a few weeks since I have called and a few months since we saw each other. I know I play a heavy hand in this. You will probably see the missed call and shrug it off, not because you do not care, but just cause. There was a time when you would call me back, even use your family land-line to call me, remember? I even saved it because I kept confusing it with call backs after job interviews. I know its mainly my fault so I thought I would call tonight and catch up on so much, I have a back log that dates back to December hey. I made good tips tonight and bought tonnes of airtime, promised myself we were going to talk for hours. Can’t wait to see you; for a short while before I leave.

Tonight I thought i should remind you of a couple of between the lines forgotten facts. To maybe remind you the worth of your tears, those when they fall sadden the earth because they do not belong there. More fun facts like how beautiful you are even without a filter. That fr the longest time ever we made Marcel’s frozen yogurt awesome. You should never live in the past, unless you are reliving moments when we laughed till we cried, that was mostly you though, and stop punishing yourself for being human and making mistakes.

Last but not least you made it okay for me to dress with no purpose and made sure I always had a dance partner. You make the best collages; when i make it you will be in charge of my media coverage, I can hear you roar with laughter just after I say that.

If this were a two way conversation, I were going to make you pinky promise never to forget me. That no matter what life threw at us, we would not give up, I won’t if you won’t. I will never stop calling  just as long as you never stop answering. Let’s be young and hopeful to defy all odds against us.