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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!

WORDS NEVER SAID!

There seems to pass some…years of happiness and prosperity,

but beneath the smile lies hideous and dark clouds of shame and agony,

yet [HE], the greatest of man claims to suffer more than he,

bearing the weight of [ALL].

He weeps as he tries to believe these words.

They sound silly and gibberish, yet oddly true.

However, effortless questions come tumbling out like a key had opened its lock.

“FOR HOW LONG”…how could such three simply words constitute this much pain?

Words like nails, nailing him in his coffin.

The pain twists in his stomach like a knife, a serrated knife, rusty and ragged.

“Ouch” would be an understatement.

Searing agony in his eyes,

Once dark brown, they burn in their sockets.

His fingers scrape against his skin as if to rip it off.

 A tear drops, the paper turns red as he tries to analyse and translate his own TRAGEDY

To uncover the never fading dark spots… Still no success.

In his mind, he has found a proper place for drama. His OWN theatre.

He doesn’t need actors or stage,

nor a dressing room and certainly no need for the audience for he is his OWN audience.

A random disjointed voice tells him to throw in the towel, but guilt.

It comes like the cold of the winter, leaving dark cloths of blood.

The best friend offers his hand as he comprehends the pain.

He has seen him on his knees, like a slave at the foot of the master,

with a face of a man as if he were burning at stake.

He has held his hands in assurance for support

They have prayed and cried together.

STILL, the friend KNOWS NOT the anguish

There lies a huge difference between KNOWING and UNDERSTANDING

At least, that’s what he thinks.

Maybe none can be called happy until that day when they carry their own happiness down their grave in peace, HE THINKS

But what if these tears clean the windows of his soul

What if this pain conceives something good after all?

And what if strength is all there is in this weakness? Only if he could just stop running away,

but how he could not, when he finds happiness in it.

When every time he extends his courtesy, he brings a smile on ones face

When there lies a spark of hope in his laughing and talking.

[Talk, lough, talk and lough a bit more and lough lough lough]

 At least such brings him happiness.

 Maybe as a person set apart,

A suffer in whom others seem to find redemption,

Then maybe a special and wonderful end is reserved for him

Yeah, an ending without grief or agony,

An ending more marvellous than that of any other man.

Maybe there is light and healing in this wrenchness after all

Maybe this agony is yet to be resigned by long endurance

Maybe someday everything will make perfect sense. So for now, I’ll laugh at the confusion, smile through these tears and keep reminding myself that everything happens for a reason

He STILL hopes.