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Walking through the historical times
of pain, wonder and collective hungers,
through the forests of khumbaya,
in the times where human and mamba
would slither to the same house of slumber,
on and on we went; through the path
filled with trees bearing fruits of lynched
slaves, where birds would peak insight
from the slave’s eye, freedom denied
and yet the jive still raising the dust,
red sky and warm fires, samp and
caterpillar; wishing for the butterfly
to grant us wings inside us, beautiful
times insightful, cold souls inhabiting cold
homes; African igloos, slingshot to heaven
using bamboos, cries and lips being
soundproof; whimper and you weaken
the flock, the sheep need to feel strong,
the shepherd is nowhere to belong,
mere imitators and chance takers,
corrupt martyrs and villainy heroes,
Paul Simon preaching of golden shoes
and Masekela esekela the path for the
weakened fighters; weekend with Chibuku
sips and old men’s lips and grannies
dancing around inhloko pots, on to
freedom slowly like sloths while the
system feeds on us like moths,
lost down the road to the promised land
when they walked hand in hand with
those who had crooked intents.
Ceremony; slaughter the goats and
have herbs from the well’s floor,
take granny’s cloth and cover your head
from tainting the sacred clay plate.

Deranged leaders; hope is not intact,
hold your heart and await the freedom
meant for us, the township is lovely
to love, the beer is sweeter than pure honey,
the money is lovely to hold, the trousers
and flowery skirts, Mandela shirts before
they became Mandela shirts, when simplicity
made us smile, when you would walk a mile
to grind your grain, when pain was part of
our daily bread, when the Mambazo on that
silver radio would made us dance as
a family even on days when stomachs ached
because of hunger pains, when for it
to rain people needed to dance, when
Makeba took us to emlanjeni, when the
tarvens had those Bob Marley freedom remarks,
when the dressing was much more colourful,
rainbow sparks and wheelbarrows filled
with maize cob from the farm, when
watching chickens made us feel entertained,
when roosters woke us and black tea from
those Kango cups made us feel the
bliss of this life.
Remember the mango seeds filling
up our mouths, “with the bullets dying
and children flying”, your next of kin
was a teen in that 1976 struggle,
wear your shades and hide your cries,
tanks and exiles; droughtful Nile, year
of the dying intestine, doeks and spies
being the system’s rook, read a book,
new outlook; see the fools, change the
rules; don’t die young, don’t let the
bullet kiss your skull, don’t let them silence
you and bury you in the dark owned ground,
let yourself be heard from the depths of the

Dance to the rhythm of the heartbeats
of voting citizens, find a new introspect,
smile to the possibility of freedom,
new era, this is a new area of the freed,
no more need to flee, no more bloody
fee to pay for more to be free.

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork By Tomasz Alen Kopera

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

2020 All Rights Reserved ©

Happy Place

How did it feel being in the past?

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