The saint and the little sweet sinner!

Days I watched life from the windows of her womb

Warm and carefree

Blinking in the sunlight

Shining in the star light

And now my being is here

In the middle of the jungle

The depths of reality, but I still fail to see the difference

Unconditional love, yes there is such a thing

Like exclamation marks,

her love stands erect

and I refuse to let well deserved compliments be solitary confined

The words never said, but shown

A year has passed since I wrote you something,

And this time it’s poles apart from the last one

 Maybe because I have grown,

Grown to what you have been moulding since the twilight of the 9th of August 1992

Me your star

You my blessing

Like couples giving extensive thoughts to ways and means

Of pleasing each other

You stood your ground well

My flaws: standing rough here and there

You have filled down the scratches on this side

Planning a bit of that side,

carving a piece,

bending this section slightly

Varnishing, dusting, waxing, polishing

Until at last, you earned joy and beauty

You have given me a sense of freedom mama

Never given things on a silver plata

You have given me its tools

Touching the pulse of my existence,

You have thought me to let it ring

Ringing the bells of my heart with your Tarzan ways

I speak of the continuous mother and daughter fight,

You made me hate you

You made me love you

I have made a remarkable observation of your being MamQocwa

To love, but to never abandon my individuality

To respect, but never allow myself to be boxed in anyone’s unnecessary rigid rules

Self-importance: a prime importance for every woman

To value my inner AND physical beauty

You are the light charting the way forward

By your actions you speak

Your silence so loud it shakes the grounds of my universe

I have observed,

I have learned

Learned not to base my happiness and success on the nod of a head unknown

A head of a stranger,

But my head

Moods,

villains waiting in the wings of every being

A song of every soul,

and none has ever completely conquered this sub-conscious little demon

but you have taught me to bless humanity with a smile

cut windows in my selfishness, and allow the eyes to look out

A verse I carry everyday

And when I walk down on the edge of the dark side

When thunder claps and lightning flashes

In the world of heartbreak drop-byes

where one’s presence is vital,

the hope in your eyes is what I cling to

The light of my shadow

The macrocosm of the whole world

Always the one to draw power from my dead batteries

A contrary to the well-known notion

You always know how to spin my wheels

A sweet curse

The abbreviation of time,

forever found inside your arms.

like a soul shovelling earth on top of a buried box,

the significant aura you exude has finally found a proper place

Like a seam of gold,

Buried in the chambers of the heart

You have it on lock

I love you. I Love me. I am you

And so I have been told

It’s true what they say isn’t it?

A woman’s best friend is her mother

Like a lovely book you bubble on

and because of your existence

I’m certain of God’s existence,

You introduced me to love

Your beauty:  mirrored in everything around you

Your innocence: you preserve it,

You protect it

And you stand up for it

The woman in me, you cure herself induced amnesia

“Let love reign.” Your verse. My verse.

God’s manifestation, yes you are

And I pray that He keeps you safe and happy mama

Happy women’s month MaZikhali

and to ALL women of this society, 

I am moved by you.
Let love win!

I love you

❤

http://cr8vmynd.tumblr.com/
Life Explained!

The Story behind…

Before print, before journalism, a young inquisitive girl once had a dream, a dream to roam around the world with her journal and a camera, to witness its beauty, and reflect it to itself. A geologist, a climatologist and so that one day in future, she would look back and say “I was there.”

At the age of thirteen, her mother took her to a national Xhosa radio station (Mhlobo wenene) once situated in Umtata, and supposedly as part of the family vocation; you know those once-in-a-while or “Christmas” vacation trips black parents do, yep, something of that nature. Inspired by the voice of Asanda Magaqa, a national Vodacom award winning journalist, the dream was disturbed. She became obsessed with broadcast journalism. Why not? With her strange curiosity, it fitted her just fine. She thought. And so the dream of being a researcher, a script writer (and later on an editor of TV or radio news scripts) began.

She held on to that dream, and yet still cosseting her passion for literature, flooding her mother’s cabinet(s) with thousand novels, something that constantly got her into trouble because a space for “significant” adornments (as her mom would say) was needed, but her books stood in the way, prohibiting the likes and interests of other members in the family.

Such selfishness, but she really couldn’t bear the thought of having them put away, not thrown, but simple put off “sight”, away from people to see the beauty of how they’d line up, so beautiful and inspiring. Yes she bragged about them. But then she had to obey the house rules (with “those” words coming out of a Xhosa mother in a burst of passion, a “yes mama” was inevitable), hence she’d lose at times. And no don’t get me wrong, she had nothing against her daughter’s obsession with books (and granted the fact that she inherited that from her), she loved it, but a space for her "guests' plates" was required. You know the kind right? The ones that only see daylight when there are guests over!

But still, despite her mother’s Tarzan ways, she kept on surrounding herself with libraries full-time, something that brought spark into her life. She was like a child in a candy shop.

At the age of seventeen after her matric, she got accepted at the Nelson Mandela University (not an institution she had in mind, and let alone, a journalism one (nope), but at least), and so you can imagine the eerr well “excitement”…? Anyways, keen and inquisitive as always, she held on to that dream until this other day, after receiving her excellent second year results she was required to choose between print and broadcast. She had always known about this, that one day, in her third year, she’d have to choose, but given the fact that she’d always been certain about broadcast, she saw no reason to contemplate.

But something changed that day, something she never anticipated, but was always there. A passion for writing, something she’d discovered while doing her second year, but never bothered to pay attention to. And now confusion consumed her. She contemplated the thought, asking family and friends, but a “choose what makes you happy” line was all she could get.

She went further and asked her role model, someone who inspired her, and a definite reason why she chose journalism; Asanda, telling her about everything and nothing, the personal blog, and face book notes she has, and finally a good response was received. “I can tell you straight away that print is the better of the two, especially since you want to write. People who are writers in broadcast don’t experience the same growth as those in print.” And so the print journey commenced, shattering everything that was once there: broadcast, and to her surprise, that never bothered her.

And now she dreams of being a successful writer, writing hard news stories (something she really has a passion for). Be an editor of BBC news or somewhere in the states, but she would really love to go to UK, her dream wonderland. But then, she can’t just pack up and leave, leaving her country starved, and deprived of watchdogs, even if she becomes successful, she will not. Change begins at home. She well knows that.

She wants to own her own publication company. And it doesn’t end there. Apart from working with hard news stories, she still dreams of writing a book, and not to brag, but a good writer is what she is. When it comes to putting her anger, sadness and anxiety, including life in general on paper and pen, a good outlet for her, she does exceptionally well.

I know I possess a talent, and I am willing to go wherever it leads me. I have a hungry brain, always keen to learn new things. A vending machine is what I’m not. I surround myself with diverse people, just to learn new things. I have become ambitious, not that I have never been, but it has become intact, and improved. I seek to learn, and I yearn to change the world with my writing (and a contrary to the popular stereotype that only groupies choose journalism. I didn’t gravitate towards my career choice to be low, as I find such people so low and not a 0°C is a contest.

As the saying goes, “Fish have to swim. Birds have to fly. And journalists have to go.” where people are suffering, I must be present, and reflect humanity to its action. Half a bag or less of peanuts is what I live to earn, and I’m not necessarily bothered, and I guess that’s how ridiculously intoxicated I am by my career. I want to witness the history and say “I was there.”

What can't be said should be written, and what can't be written should be simple------> http://cr8vmynd.tumblr.com/
Now you know what needs to be done. (",). Let's do humanity a favour.

CHARGE ME GUILTY!

Late at night, beneath these covers

as the light bulb cools off,

I find myself digging deeper into the mind.

The thoughts,

Piled up like unopened bills dumped in a desk drawer,

Kept for so long beneath the skin,

they break at the edge of it,

I can hear the void in their voices

“set us free!” they scream!

Tapping the deep flowing rhythms of my psyche,

they yearn to take the stairway to Heaven,

the sweet Tango dance on the paper

I can taste the bitter need

The spine shivers,

I need to set them free

But the blossoming elements assert to curb the dream

Stoned, and held hostage by the hands.

Pen confined by the fingers,

deprived of its duty,

just leaving drops of ink behind so they might someday

find a way out.

and you still wonder about the continuous empty pieces of paper…?

So now what’s left of you? You know the story

But need I ask, you already know what needs to be done,

charge me guilty of cruelty, for I am.

TO YOU I WRITE

I wrote this for my roommate. The most wonderful soul! 

[NO HOMO]

I remember walking into the room and seeing your stuff on the other side
and I thought “oh snap, so this is who I get to annoy with my awkwardness for
the rest of my second year??!!... Great!”
But to my surprise, guess who got me in awkward stitches (._.)
I remember the first time I read your piece, stoked and surprised I. was!
And I kept asking for more, and so did the “write and read for each other” become a trend
(even though you couldn’t tell me how whack [MY] lines were)
I remember the monkey morning,
eerr we don’t even need to go into detail with this one :)
I was careless, but so were you
Hence the room was left unlocked most of the time
And none cared (._.)…??
I remember how shy you were to tell me about my necklace
(not that you ever did tell what exactly happened to the poor thing)
But then “chilled” was the motto
“Hacked” was never p-7’s tradition
I remember you stole my cheese….and I stole your All Bran (._.)
And the night of your *munches*…Lol dude you stole my Weet-Bix that night :’D
But a “confession moment” was held right?
We were alien like that
I remember you being and outlet for my you-know-who exhausted “fairy tale”
Yes I did annoy you.
Always riddled with curiosity,
but YOU were never too scared to give straight answers to my *boundless* questions
Too skeptical to bare your soul to the world,
Grief held in check, sorrow contained,
But one could see an aching void inside you.
Buried for so long, pinned and nearly numb,
Riven with INTERNAL conflict
And torn apart by personal doubts.
So now as let myself sink down into my thoughts,
The see of memories:

TO ZETHU SOLAM MACATSHA I WRITE:
Like a tomb stone made of granite,
Engraved in its darkness is a richer dust.
Somewhere in you lies a special wonderful atmosphere
And one of these days, you’ll find an extraordinary sense of peacefulness within its wall.
The air will be fresh. Redolent of dew-laden grass and green growing things (and maybe NOT *the green things* (",)
You’ll get to the core of your being, the centre of your psyche
And there, you will find hidden resources, a strength that has ALWAYS existed in you.
Like growing lilacs, bursting with green leaves and white buds,
You will be in full flower.
But sometimes none can help us, we have to find courage ourselves.
One woman holds the key to your soul. YOU!
Now smile (",) for you have managed to go on living for 20 years!!! (",)
You have a good heart zethu.
Unaware, but YOU are a  boxed set, a gift item.
HAPPY 20TH BIRTHDAY ROOMIE (",)
Go forth child and [God] bless you.
I do miss you [and the rest is still unwritten]
WORD!

FORBIDEN BY THE SPIRITS OF SLAVERY!

Day fairly clear, showing patches of blue.
The weeping mother kneels down in misery.
The male figure has his eyes wide open. Fist clenched.
Anger written all over his face! Eyes brury with fury.
I lurch from one emotion to another.
Oh how i wish he'd look at her with a positive eye that forgets about power.
How i wish he'd hear the thought jumping into the mind like a fish on to a hook 'she's no kitchen tools or baby maker.'
How i wish he'd realise the true refuge of a woman.
A husband who can embrace her.
She might not glitter like gold, but she's a true seed of humanity.
Left with eternal wounds in the house, crying won't help now for he is gone! lord knows where.
It's hard to think of what to face when each day brings surprises and misery. No certainty.
Crashed into ruins. She dusts herself off and stands up with 'dignity',
but nothing will ever be the same.
However, breaking away from those chains that hold her tight to his love seems almost impossible.
But why must she suffer forever in the hands of the loved one?
when the one she loves can set his fierce gun open
why won't she break free in the land of justice and liberty?
Woman: it is better to die of solitude than to die gradually from a wounded pride!