Once upon a gun, Bullets had the best lullaby for putting my people to sleep. And just like goodbye hugs, all it took was to squeeze the trigger, But ironically the BIG BANG that followed was not of creation but ensured a bed six feet deep where one could rest in peace Now with so many layers of the soil needed to cover one person that should tell you how cold the world is on the surface. So we trade off purpose for monetary blankets to comfort our chicken skin but Im not afraid of the world Im just afraid of getting used to the sound of my mothers fears, they have a way of reminding me of what Im not which is everything she is to me. Because even though poetry makes sense to me, it fails to help me inject fats to the hand that feeds me. Ignorant me is now hating the fact that I comprehend why my brothers had to stretch their arms with no intentions of harm but to save their moms, perhaps, pull the pieces of what is left from their broken homes. And with each piece brothers pave a bloody path for young sisters to not even bump into a strippers pole. A piece to save sisters from being bullied into a corner by the sound of a growling stomach. Its poetry, how the purest of motives could give birth to such actions, but we never snap for ghetto fractions divide us. I used to point fingers. Judge my brothers from a distance for destroying society, but that was before these hands felt the heat from the tears of my crying mother. And that was when I realized that the worst shoulder to cry on is the one carrying a school bag. Because it might just drop the bag, if the bag has nothing to provide for today, because in the township, tomorrow remains a religion only for those who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Im sure, Im sure life would be a fun competition when there were no deadlines on when you should become a bread winner. And by the way, by the way, how can I believe in tomorrow when my father had found greener pastures elsewhere, and instead of leaving he chose to be in our faces to constantly remind us of what we have lost, feeling less important to him was nothing compared to how my mom felt, useless, blaming herself for his actions, and from her actions, I could tell that shes regretting. Shes regretting something that she does not even know. Just like perfectly imperfect beings I find beauty in choking. Because its never the truth if it can easily be swallowed. I sampled my mothers prayers before they got to the lords ears. And I dared myself to not cry, because Im a man. But the thoughts of hating my father overcrowded my mind, resulting in my eyes dripping of sweat. Im still trying to convince myself that those were not tears. And my father, he always found a way to justify himself, he said it all started when all he was good for was counting the cracks on her spine, now I could pick a bone with him call him a dog for wanting more when he had more than enough. But thats just pointless, because right now I live to remind my mom on how to smile again. Teach my sister on how to stand after falling, and after all the pain somehow my stubborn heart still loves my father, so I want to tell him that he is not responsible for my failings. I want to thank my mom for not allowing me to drop my school bag. Because after all, knowledge is power! That destroys lives by living in the past it freezes time so we end up living in the past of scars. To those who are seeking freedom, I would like to recommend forgiveness. Because once upon a mom, prayers were never a sign of weakness, and everything that had happened was just to wake me up from sleeping yet never from dreaming. RIP Sabelo Ayanda Lushaba: Ghetto Fractions
Posted on: Mon, 03 Nov 2014 17:43:22 +0000