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  • New Fafi

    By Lemeeze Davids
    The answer beyond the deep blue heavens, The Assembly take up as – ONE, in his sickening uncastrated power gig, would be any governmental official in their sexy scandals and sports car mansions – a strict hand on an apocalypse to be
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    Sometimes sitting on top of molehill is no help at all. Particularly, if what you look for is not anywhere nearby, not even at the last ends of farm you reside at. Sometimes spending time seated on top of the
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    By Lindiwe Nkutha
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    By Chimezie Ihekuna
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  • Prison to Prism: A Journey Home

    By Denise Y. Fielding
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Wednesday, 14 June 2017 14:45

New Fafi

The answer beyond the deep blue heavens,

The Assembly take up as –

ONE, in his sickening uncastrated power gig, would be any governmental official in their sexy scandals and sports car mansions – a strict hand on an apocalypse to be thrown down on every enemy-funded investigation.

TWO can be represented by all underpaid women doing thrice twice nice the job of some suffocated sterling guy, choking on those bitter misogynistic slurs and anecdotes.

THREE, the smart hand of death, would stand as the poor starvation in Burundi Haiti Ethiopia Zambia Yemen, the poor war in Syria Pakistan Sudan Nigeria Somalia, the poor old protests in Venezuela South Africa America, caused by the frost-bitten brain of ONE.

FOUR is the wrath of the sea-grave earth rising up in a motherlode of vengeance against a smog parasitic race destroying the world one millimeter & centigrade & Celsius & Fahrenheit at a time.

FIVE, the fleet-footed techamonology that’s moving faster that we can admit it’s moving past us in terror future or radiant life.

SIX – the youth are getting smarter, the youth are getting wiser – or have they always been wise? – more unpredictable, and have these creatures called Opinions as pets that they forget to feed! What!

SEVEN rises for the sex workers wronged, all the sexualities wronged, all the sexual expressions wronged, all the queer bodies wronged, the piano legs and eyes covered in the name of the seven letter word – decency.

EIGHT speaks of the medicine snatched up from the only shelf the lower class can reach – from AIDS suffer’d, the TB suffer’d, from the streets, from the un-medical-aided, the scrutinised.

NINE appears in the light of the moon, in the light of all who couldn’t fight back or didn’t know if they should fight back and think on the word Virginity with a shudder and a howl!

TEN – working – toiling – breath – legends of hammer, shovel, crank and cents a day – coal deep – menial hands that turn the wheel of life using their biceps & pectorals & asses & torsos.

ELEVEN salutes everyone who is high out their mind, who got railed right, who laughed at little a little while a little happiness in the form of instant gratification – air bubbles et al.

TWELVE, hand to breast as they sing the dying anthems of their countries and people – hand to breast because they are proud of who they are despite what others stole – Flag, Trumpet, Talking Drum!

THIRTEEN marches for all the veterans, lost causes, casualties, children bombed, horrific gore, unnecessary gore, tragedy innocent and brave nothings watching the world become a coffin factory.

FOURTEEN for all the delicate appendices of Life, inscribing meaning via Higher Power, Higher Purpose, or Higher Intellect – from Universities to Churches to Temples to Mosques to Synagogues and all places of worship.

FIFTEEN sings of biting cold in homeless bones, wet cardboard heartless ramblings between hot streets and frigid lights and washing up in a toilet bowl, dreaming of a big house and a couple bucks.

SIXTEEN, the Diamond Woman vs. the Dead Woman, who was voided on account of not meeting some obscure criteria created by blinkered bunker-nuts – we shouldn’t talk over one another.

SEVENTEEN is filled by the melody of old women, old men and old writers – listen to the storytellers and the artists who doggedly keep their lips to the mouthpiece of ancient trumpets, blowing to sounds that don’t exist yet, an explosion cry of expression!

EIGHTEEN takes up the heavy title of borders, intersection that makes up mazes in our minds with eleven languages and infinitely more subtext.

NINETEEN seats herself in front of a mirror judging with her own eyes judging her own eyes – watching, mind reeling, distant and some what dissecting.

And TWENTY, how could you forget just because you are embarrassed to remember? South Africa, get dressed! Where do you exist in the world and in Africa? What is your stance your truth your reconciliation? Your resolution? Whose land? What land? – What land, South Africa? Who is kidnapping our girls? Who is majordomo? Who is spending our coins? Who is South Africa?
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