This I Knead

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