This I Knead

I confronted my fears and became the serpent you said you knew me to be. I dislocated my mouth to hold your words, and still they wouldn't call it home. My mother's tongue is foreign - now. My father's brow is lighter - now. My bedtime song is more sombre - now. Your eyes, I guess, are less distracted - now. What I wouldn't have done for myself I did for you. What I wouldn't have given for love I gave for you. What I would have had for life I surrendered to you. What I would have been, Where I could have been, How I could have been, Still leaves no blame with you - no fault - even now. I have no words for I have no face for I have no voice for I gave it all to you.  Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

They took his tongue the day my father died. Declared it an act; a rite. Soon they called me daughter, my child, nnana-girl. But their hands, still, were not his. They didn't have scarred wrists from being pulled behind horse mounted militia. They had fingerprints; unlike his fingers rubbed smooth by tailor made hollows of sanctuary. They didn't know the bitterness of the hot, angry earth under a rubber sole stamped face. Theirs didn't have the shiny oblong mark from forbidden sticky hot caramel made one midnight to chase sorrow at a secret feast. Theirs didn't smell of camphor. Their didn't know where to rub out my sadness. Theirs didn't know the rhymes of the summer winds. I never got to hear my father's voice; just his words which felt blunted against their corn yellow smiles. They took my father's tongue and turned it into a letter opener. Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

“I’m alone” came his voice over the line. She scorched her tongue once more with the too sweet coffee. Energy seeped through both their ears while wine fueled cheer buzzed in the hallway. In the morning the maid sprayed carpet cleaner on the plum stains while the forensic team plucked markers off the walls.  “They could have helped him” rang a gravelled voice.  “If only.” she chimed; “Blood’s terrible on loop pile.” Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

I find myself sitting in a café on Durban Road in Cape Town and wondering whether or not I am in the same country as the terrible xenophobic attacks. Coldplay’s “Yellow” is playing in the background, the “Food Network” is playing on the muted televisions, and everyone is absorbed in their own conversation with the occasional eyeing of what is happening on the street or in the café. I have always wondered if money can buy you happiness, and thought that the principle was too black or white. What I have come to realise by being in this café and watching couples walk in for their lunchtime date, or friends walk in laughing at raised volumes, or watching the homeless person on the road battling the cruel cape winds, is that money can buy you blindness. I am flicking down my Facebook news feed and almost breaking out into tears in public (something I never do) because of the images some of my friends are posting about the attacks in Kwa Zulu Natal, and I am surprised by the nu

(Written and Recited by Katlego K Kol-Kes) I was younger last night and I dreamed of candy Before I knew that sweet things Are often better left untouched. I was younger last night and I dreamed of forever Before I knew that eternity Is worse lived than the fairytales teach. I was younger last night and I dreamed of “I’m sorry” Before I knew that words can’t heal A broken smile or a shattered heart once surrendered. I was younger last night and I dreamed of holding hands  Before I knew that being too close for comfort Sometimes leads to burning tyre necklaces and forced intercourse. I was younger last night and I dreamed of home Before I knew that brick walls Are no safer than battle fields. I was younger last night and I dreamed of memories Before I knew that forgetting Would be the antidote to keeping my loved ones so. I was younger last night and I dreamed of death Before I knew that even an unwelcome acquainta

In my continued effort to build my appreciation of poeticism in my mother tongue, I hereby share this poem by R.D. Molefe. As if to throw me into the throngs of politicised thought, I read the following poem after I had already decided on which poem to upload, and now I have changed my mind. I hope it gets you thinking as much as it did with me. SOURCE: nourishingfoodways.com Motse-mogolo wa Mo šate, Botswana.  - a poem by R.D. Molefe Maabane ke feta ka Mafikeng,  Motlotlegi Fawcus a ntaetsa,  A re , "Mpiletse Seretse a itlhaganele,  A tle a utlwe phetolo ya kwa Moseja,  Ya kgang tsa maloba a di nthoma,  Ba Pusokgolo ba iteela mafoko.  Ba re ke huduse Mo šate kwa Mafikeng,  Ke o rwale ke o ise Gaborone,  Ke o huduse kwa ntle ga tiego.  Kwa Gaborone metsi a tla bonala,  Ngotwane a kgala  re tla epa didiba.  Madi a teng ga re bolo go a baya,  Re letile khunou ya kwa Serowe,  Ka ke ene mojaboswa wa Botswana.  As if in some wicked ton

  Sapiosexuals are a fairly new phenomenon, but this label’s gaining popularity fast enough to be featured as an option on OkCupid . Where most of us want a partner ‘who listens’, very few us have what it takes to nab a partner whose interest is piqued by our speech. What’s an easy way to spot a sapiosexual? They’re aloof, quirky, sarcastic, and untouchably sexy and they’ll most probably (still) be single this Valentine's Day . This isn’t to say that the average sapiosexual won’t be titillating someone else’s cerebellum over an seasoned bottle of wine this Valentine’s Day, but in the event of knowing, or finding, a single one, a few pointers can’t hurt. First of all, sapiosexuals find intellect more attractive than physical features but they’re not asexual. They do want to rumble in the jungle, it’s just that you may need to provide some topical distinctions between a rain forest, the busheveld and a jungle before you get into things. In this day and age where w

There’s a Lesbian at my table. She sits adjacent to me and eats the food I make. She chews well enough –   with her mouth closed. She doesn’t swallow too loudly, Or slurp her drink. This Lesbian at my table bides her time by calling me “Mme” , and seduces me with offerings: “ Nka lo siela tee?” and “Ke tswa go reka kuku e e sukitshana.” I suppose she has learned well – she can slip herself past thirsty eyes and unchaste ears. I found the Lesbian at my table where I had left my beloved child. She seems to have consumed her like a hungered bird – waited too long through a rainy night and awakened to find no morsels creeping along the moistened earth. When I sat down for our evening meal I thought I saw the tassels of booties I had knitted while swollen like a mango at summer’s end. They were yellow like the sun whose over affectionate kisses had me too ripe to touch and unforgivingly tender.  They slid between her lips

I read this article and thought: This is exactly why I continue to do the work I do. I would love to get to the point where I read articles like this written by Batswana in Setswana. I thought I'd share the tail end of the ARTICLE here:   • Sex is not the same as gender: Sex refers to biology and anatomy, while gender is both a psychological sense of self, and a set of cultural defined norms that are expected to be adhered to. • Being transgender is not a choice: We are just beginning to understand that, like sexual orientation, our gender identity is pre-wired in our brains. • Transgender people have appeared in all cultures throughout our history, with some cultures accepting and honoring them and others rejecting them. In our culture, the typical norm is: sex = gender = sexual orientation. When one is young and realizes their sense of self does not fit the norm, they often go in to hiding, and they find ways to overcompensate to keep their "secret." The fear

Last year, in a spurt of patriotism and feeling too removed form my language - Setswana, I went into Botswana Book Centre at the main Mall and bought myself some books. This collection on poems by R.D. Molefe titled  Mešomo was one of them.  It is terrifically thrilling to gnaw on the jewels of this language and study under the deft hands of a seemingly relaxed, yet equally precise, writer. Here is an offering. I will be putting up a few more of his work before I serve my loaf of Setswana poetry.  *I happened to buy a Coke from the lady by my house and it turned out that it had my name on it! The universe shared a Coke with me and now I am sharing poetry with you.  ______________ Mešomo Maloba, fatshe sa ntse le iketile, Re ne re disa kwa gare ga dithota, Tsatsi le phirima re lere dinotshe, Re tle re tshotse le mae a dikgaka, Mešomo ya banna ba maabane. Ba kajeno bona go šongwa dikuku, Go ratholwe dibotlolo go lelalwe. R.D.

Dear Real World, I’m not talking to the ones who self-gratifyingly make statements like: “You look good… today.” I’m talking to the ones who think that simply because I look good every day I must have something I am trying to prove. I am complete, with myself – all by my-self. I am unique, but if you’d care to read you’ll see that you are too. I am outstanding, not only because I allow myself to be but also in the way that I speak my truth without devaluing yours. Your heritage and your standards you must always remember that they’re yours and not mine. I consider myself beautiful, but that’s because I know the work I put in. I consider myself complex, because I never know which dot I’ll connect next. I consider myself warrior of peace, because my speech initiates breaks from silence. I refuse, however, and please hear me clearly when I say this: I refuse to be normal. Naturally, I am not made to be a wallflower. Natura

A little share of an excerpt from my short story titled: Any Time . As the flakes of ash gently floated from the tip of her cigarette – she smoked menthols “because they burn gently” – and the wisps of smoke rose in a dance above her finger tips, she could feel the depression setting in.   It was midnight, or shortly after midnight, and all the traffic in the road beneath her balcony was now gone. In summer, you can sit out on the balcony for the whole night and ponder your life away; this is what Cleo wanted to do. Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

Got to play around with a mystery game of time and setting scenic writing. Turned out the exercise was more mystery than descriptive, but it was really fun. Here's what I came up with. Can you guess the setting? The void seemed to pulsate with each sonar beep. “Where could they be? Where could they be?” The question looped in Stuart Corrigan’s mind, battling the panic frenzy happening around him. Bodies flew about the corridor pulling streamers and over-inflated balloons behind them. His eyes fixated on the bottom right corner on the monitor. Would it all really come to an end soon? Each minute seemed to take light-years to pass, and he was qualified to make this grand statement. The clink of bottles and cheap dollar store glasses, the type that his Nana kept for unwelcome guests on the ranch, syncopated with his breath and the rhythmic beeps. “Anything yet?” asked the head of Dr. Ewan Plitts, severed by metallic door frame. “No. Nothing. Not yet, anyway” responded