I have no recollection how we got Fifi boxed in that afternoon. It was raining lightly and as the raindrops dews splattered gently besides the drain furrow, moistening the soil and collecting into streams around us to flowing into the furrow where our tussle was underway as our figures wrestled that of Fifi. Three against one. The power of memory is able to jolt scenes into stark relief without their sources except the impressions left behind by byways that lead us there time and again for a lifetime.
*Soon passing out of sight, memory or existence
ΤΗΣ day I found friendship was the day Desmond and I were caught by surprise by a low flying airplane while playing on a mound of sand at my grandmother’s backyard one summer’s day. Having being forced earlier to drink castor oil by our mothers who happened to be affectionate friends, we messed our pants when we scurried away in a fright-flight away from the big iron monstrosity that streak-hovered passed us like a big gong bell.
Foreword to Grand ‘Ma’ hearth
Readers and friends the poem Grand ‘Ma’ hearth was written to salute my maternal grandmother who is in her early nineties. There is another work entitled ‘mogakagadi’ through which I have tried to do her justice in a lyrical portraiture. The work itself was also an attempt on my part to write in Setswana. I hope to blog it very soon for your perusal.
Recently during my last visit to my grandmother, as I embraced her frail form, she held me with a soft gaze that held pools of tears at their edges and sniffed ‘I had had my life, the end can come now’. Her grayed eyes seem to bore through my surprised heart like the jab of a laser beam. Something within me turned and I was filled with an overwhelming sour feeling; fear and loss all mixed into one. Such is one’s candle of life. Our time here is fragile.
I just want to thank you for your continuance support of my blog as it nears the three thousand mark. …it is such a liberating feeling to be able to devote one’s time to writing amid a busy schedule and family commitments. But it is also reassuring when one’s work is read, appreciated and criticized!
I sat on a bench in a park. A park I had no idea what its name was. I had walked around like an ant in an empty match stick box, boxed and trying to figure out how things had become dull and dark all of a sudden. Thinking about this metaphor as I looked at my empty palm up jittering hands a boyhood memory of an ant I once trapped in a match box flashed across the dark recess of my dull witted mind. Something burned in my heart, perhaps it was hope. Hope that I will spin myths again. Truth be told I was scared of sitting on my desk and looking at the blank pseudo white page of my computer trying to pen the next work. It has been fruitless months. I could not even bring myself to spin a haiku, blessed the Japanese’s inventiveness of contracting a potent saying in seventeen syllables. But this too has amount to nothing. I wondered whether this blockage of my wits had anything to do with my last stance on the cultural artifact we call art. That art, for it to be understood the society within which it is produced must be prepared to critique it, through pure viewing, through a dual critique – or viewing if you let me have that.