The Brave Mister

 

Brave Mister
photo credit @ownherworld

 

I come in many shapes and sizes.

To some, I am a man of charisma; the kind that stifles fear and electrifies the will.

To others, I am the biggest loser; the man with a balding sense of humour.

To the art of words, I am her brave Mister; the fool that tried to tame her and failed.

I do not claim that Poetry loves me in the same manner, but tis the love Shakespeare proclaimed.

A love affair with the sublime that only ends in one way: when the writer stops writing.

I was three when I first met my muse — my Juliette of poetry?

Sparks flew when she spoke in metaphors and I in broken vows and sentences.

I made a mockery of myself; what with the diaper and the lack of sophistication?

So I strengthened my acquisition with the world; I learnt the language of Men and Bots.

I went to pre-school.

I learnt to colour in between the lines to impress her. I was fervently in love with my muse, but I could not express her. I fell sick; my muse ignored me still.

From an early age to adolescent, I buried myself in television. I let the ambient box sing me to sleep. I let it erase my talents. I dragged through life and death — then back through life. I did things I would never trade my breath for — like learning to dance with both feet. The magic was missing. There was no thrill, no spunk.

Till I read ‘My Black Is Beautiful’ by Yolanda Mabuto.

If admitting that I cried means I’ll be stripped of my right to be a man, then set me free. I was revitalised of an energy I once knew; I was alive again. And I felt my muse blink.

Ever collapse to the sensation of being home after a long trip?

I felt the same; I felt the rush of belonging to something bigger than self — of belonging to Juliette.

I read more and she spoke a little louder. We dined over Jane Austen’s passages, laughed like children in Chuck Lorre’s ‘Vanity Cards’ and survived horrors in Stephen King’s ‘Nightmares and Dreamscapes’.

The more I marched over the terrains of literature, the closer I came to my muse.

Soon, we became one; we became night and day.

And with a kiss, she vanished.

She said I was ready.

Ready for what?

Ready to write.

 

 

Of Rapists & Victims: The First Of Its Series.

Sometimes we forget. That those closest to us are capable of the most heinous acts.

Photo credit: @ownherworld

I.
The hum of her skirt,

Stories of lust sewn in,

He sings along,

Thoughts of skin on skin,

And echoes of her plea,

Melodious,

The subjugation of her will,

Melodious,

The screams of her inching to survive,

Yet moaning to the thrust,

Of him,

She denies the face of the man that robs her,

She denies,

Yet moans?

She denies,

The face of her father,

She gives in,

Because she feels,

That’s the only way,

Out.

Of Black, Children & Vices.

tyronetakawira
photocredit: @artbywak

Colonialism kissed,

The face of the African sun,

Systematic,

The infiltration of the devil’s kiss,

Illusions of colour,

Illusions that blinded,

The hearts of supremacists,

WE ARE CHILDREN,

Dreams of our ancestors,

Silhouettes of their realities,

Our minds cannot conceive of,

Shades of black,

of niggers cut,

blood,

Bath of kaffirs,

The knife that is white privilege,

WE WERE BORN,

98tolife.wordpress.com
photocredit: @creativesoulphoto

With a melanin scarred,

We spite,

The stretch marks on our skin,

Yet poverty sits,

On the roof of our tongues,

Can we afford to speak?

Lineages of men,

That smoked polygamy once,

And forgot to exhale,

Lineages of men,

That skip responsibility with a tempo,

Crescendos of pain,

Crescendos of absence,

Men that leave,

Before daughters utter the word,

Father.

A MOTHER’S VICE,

98tolife.wordpress.com

Chinua demands,

Chinua demands to eat,

Chinua always demands,

His stomach shouts,

Ghosts of his vigor,

Ghosts of his hard work,

His stomach shouts,

Substances of liquor,

Substances of his hard work?

She kneels,

And washes the hand that bruised and battered her,

She kneels,

And feeds the mouth that swallows her name whole,

Before vomiting out another,

Priscilla?

The turn of her insides.

She knows not,

Of the silent messages,

And the loudness of moans,

That aren’t hers,

She knows not,

Of the legs that spread,

On the same bed that holds her secrets,

She knows not,

Of her daughter’s beauty,

Because hers, surely,

Isn’t enough,

She knows not?

She knows,
And justifies,

And kneels.

 

Lit, a recollection…

Tyrone Takawira

PART I:

Moments of pain are so intricate with probability. It’s only when you sit in a 4WD hitting sixty — that you begin to connect the dots.

I got soaked in hot water when I was ten. Quite a prolific moment. If I hadn’t slept in my long PJs the night before, I wouldn’t have tripped. I wouldn’t have let go of the heated pot. All I could do was watch the steam rise, and the water fall.

Onto my skin.

It was a hundred degrees of fucked up; kerosene on the Sun shouldn’t burn this slow. I couldn’t see past the light, the vapour of flesh and pain was blinding. Between crying for help and regaining balance, I couldn’t breathe.

Worse, I was lying right in the center; too dismantled to leap for salvation, too hot to stay.

My mind is blank here, how I got up is for Holmes to solve.

I do, however, remember knocking on mother’s door; she didn’t answer. Mother was pressed in sleep, and I, in boiling melanin. All I could do was blow on my skin, and keep moving.

“Keep moving, sonnie. Gets hella hot if you don’t.”

Blowing spurts of air on myself was like running a garden hose from a kitchen sink — in the hopes of putting out 9-11.

My mind draws another blank, next thing I’m seated in dad’s 4WD, hitting sixty on a highway. He asked if I had ‘cooled off’, which was a bad joke. I nodded. What I meant to say was,

“i’m friggin’ drowning,

in ashes,

save me,”

We stepped into Pari Hospital some minutes past eight. It smelled like detergents and government service, with an attitude. Papers got filed. I slept in on a hospital bed; the first time since 98′.

The next morning was a mess. Puss ran from my blisters, and my skin had crept into the bandages. The nurses tossed me into a tub, like a dead somebody. Two locked my legs, one gripped both arms, and the other tore the bandages off. That son offa’ never counted to three.

It was not a poetic scene; the red and black of tissue in dying skin is as fantabulous as it gets; no kitty glitter anywhere. I buried a kick in someone’s neck, all in the name of pain.

I was scrubbed in salt water, which is something of a pinch in the groin, the kind were the pincher doesn’t let go.

I sat on the bed hours later, with a fresh kit of bandages, ready to bat into dreamscapes.

I stretched a smile,

“i’m glad THAT’S over,”

A nurse turned on the lights. He left a glass of water and said I was real brave today.

He also said I best get a good night’s sleep for another bath tomorrow.

I didn’t say a word.