There is no charity, At least in this city. No work is done for honest gain Without unknown added costs.
Some call them favours, Others incentives. To me, it’s an insecure insurance Policy to motivate workers,
Who will always have a story Why the work can’t be done, Without paying for extra labour, For simple services, like fixing a car.
It goes in for a usual service – It comes out needing to be re-serviced Since parts are ‘misplaced’, When the next mechanic says:
“Boss, these parts installed are faulty.” Were the two men in collusion? We can never be certain, Other than the roaring costs
For a job half-done. I turn in Loads of notes. Upset, I visit the barber I tip him, and he tips me off. His boot is loaded with fine shoes.
“Best name brands at better prices.” Than the store? But how did he get them? I buy a pair, but am I in collusion To the manager looking for walking shoes?
I just wanted my haircut, but the cut Of prices of these name brand shoes Sedates the fury of my car in service, And I make a saving and return
To the crook that downgraded the car. “Reimburse me on your poor workmanship!” He looks at me in disbelief: “Bo rra², with what money?”
The leeching is a means of feeding The hungry family. Swindling is a means of Educating the children. As for the money, “You can afford to make more.”
my homeland is a star of forgotten light on quiet nights its descendants dream of life on stars of silky cloth beyond the heat
they star gaze with fermented grain numbing their pain of coveted gain exclaiming to all who would listen
“there is no future here”
“just a clouded heaven, an empty promise” dressed in starlight a child speaks up of a blue and black and white banner that says there is enough pula* for everyone
“the land with gold is nothing but snow take it from me who has been who has lived in comfort Greener grass means wetter weather”
“Can you handle that?”
a provoked descendant leans in he manhandles the child tearing his dimming collar “this is all I have to handle!”
the child falls to the floor the light forgets itself both are worse for wear living in existential fear
Boipuso: Independence Day (Setswana)
Pula: rain, reign and Botswana’s currency (Setswana)
Sparrows dance across A neglected road Chickens cross its potholes
The pavement If that is a pavement Is an overgrowth Of weeds and shrubs Brushing feet and rims
What was a gutter Is now a bushveld Creeping where tar Is eroding
Drivers complain “Why don’t the robots work?” In a fury they drive over them
They collect the scraps Might as well sell them back To none other than the government For a profit at that
Council knows Of our neglected roads They wait until Their tyres burst before They send workers To do a week’s job in a month And a month’s job in a year So traffic is always growing
Everyone complains Even the labourers under the sun And the chinaman watching them run Machines and signposts, saying “SLOW DOWN — Construction Ahead”
Speeding is necessary To survive The chinamans tumbling bridge To avoid The hijackers trapping at stop streets To prevent The kombi that slowly merges In and out of lanes With a wave of his hand And no indicators
Green lights mean GO Orange lights mean GO FASTER Red lights mean GO FAST ENOUGH - TO NOT BE T-BONED
A cop might pull the driver over If he feels hungry or thirsty He might go with you at the red light To skip traffic Hooting with you in celebration
On these roads 4WDs are kings SUVs are lords Everything else — peasantry Which Mercs and BMERs deny While speed bumps scrap their chassis And flash floods drown their wheels
It does not take a visionary To plan a city But it takes a madman To let it run like a circus And say: “That’s just Gabz for you.”
To any soul that dares brave our roads Here’re some pointers:
Watch out for cows They can kill Avoid the goats That’s our dinner Please bump the dogs And flatten the cats They can fill the craters Of our neglected roads And most importantly Always have some cash Since bribes are cheaper than fines And ‘Cool Time’ calms road rage Of a driver sitting in traffic too long
there ain-t nothing that-s black about me other than my clay-coloured-skin my roots in southern africa and my distinct articulations
back home they call me a coconut coz i be white in ways i read and write i show no negritude
by which they mean hip hop bantu talk and struggle since my mother is a lekgowa* and my education ‘private-and-prestigious’
my name and sight deceives they say for when i speak i talk like they do about things they care of and i wondered whether i could be black enough
honestly i-m just a nigga that loves the land cursed to the bone by blood of victor and victim i showcase both histories
these days i turn back and say what then is a nigga to you poor and prostitute participates of gang violence
potheads with crackhead-ed baby mamas — no real future ahead so long as I speak ebonics or a bantu tongue then am I black
i watch the words — their double meaning because if white means well spoken and read then what does it mean for the black man why reduce a nigga to a slum-sleeper
black nigga african words we never chose but we-re given black nigga african what do they mean
to dance and have rhythm as to entertain whom to run miles and not tire as to flee from what
we look at the world divided into me and you but you say i am as white is coz of cash class and control
if black is to be broke-and-broken then why be a nigga or maybe the negro needs new clothes other than the tropes of what white is not
Lekgowa: white person (Setswana)
First published in the Kalahari Review. I’ve included the link below.
I wrote this poem in October last year for an event called the Gospel Experience Germany. The goal was to share the Gospel of Christ to Germans at large but with a pan-African twist. I say ‘twist’ in the sense that the artists were predominantly Africans from different parts of the continent, performing to a largely European audience. The intention, I recall, was to showcase how ‘church’ is done in other communities across the world, diversifying the image of Christianity and challenging our assumptions of how God ought to be worshipped.
Since it is Easter, I figured that now would be a good time to re-circulate my poem “The Story Goes On” on my website. I hope it blesses you and encourages you on this special weekend.
Here is the written verse for the readers:
There is hope for the future That may seem lost So don’t waver in your worship Of our God up above.
Since the fall of man, God always had a plan To redeem humankind Then let them perish and pass Onto eternal judgement.
The story of Jesus never stopped at the cross but continues as a crossroad to life or death At your discretion.
Let me put it in simple speech: Good man, Bad man, To God, you’re a deadman.
Coz what is good to godly? What is honour to holy? The disparity makes us unworthy In our devotion to the divine.
But good news, The gospel is for the undeserving, Meaning you and me and The vices of our humanity:
Be it drink or temper, Be it pride or grudges we harbour. Grace not only covers a multitude of sins, But it saves the sinner from sinning.
And so the story goes on. God, the Father, saw our dilemma. Knowing the wages of sin is death And our disposition to profane his name,
He made a plan. With foresight so frightening to fathom, He told prophets of providence, Making outcasts in the process:
Hosea and his whore, a metaphor for our soul, David in the ephod Anticipates us, His royal priesthood.
And so the story goes on, As the Son of Man entered our world To be a ransom for many With hope in His eyes and love in His hands.
He surrendered his crown for thorns, His robe for blood and bruises, His praises for mockery That we might be reconciled to the Father,
That the Holy Spirit might dwell within us, That death may die with Him. The gospel is a story of a God Who reached out to men - who’d reject Him.
So don’t waver in your worship With the weight of sin on your shoulders. Lift it up to the Redeemer to be transformed forever,
For the gospel was never about us Reaching heaven but heaven reaching us. His kingdom come, His will be done On Earth as it is heaven.
The days may be dark, But our souls shine bright With the hope of Christ. So take courage this night!
Our God is good, and our God is love, And love casts out all fears. So draw close to God, And he’ll draw close to us,
As our story goes on, As we carry his name Through the years and tears and trials. The gospel goes on,
As fiends march on our fields, As fears stir in our stomachs, As forces dissuade our faith. Victory is assured
Since Jesus rose from death. Hallelujah!
If any of you are interested in seeing the other artists from the Gospel Experience, I will include the link here. You can watch the whole live-recording on YouTube.
Before closing, I want to express my gratitude to Hannah Kamarafor extending the invitation to perform for a third time. I appreciate the opportunity.
For those that don’t yet know her, she’s a brilliant singer with a colourful voice, soothing to the ear. And her music is simply fire! So, if you are interested in gospel music, this will be up your alley, and if not, it never hurts to give it another shot. You might miss out something 😉
My sister wrote this piece a while ago, and during our trip to Uganda, it resurfaced in conversation. I thought it was extraordinary then and still is now. It was a high school assignment where you take a line from a poem and integrate it into your composition. Looking back at it now, there is much to admire and applaud.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Just click on the link.
Happy Reading!
Our Rising Passion Piece is from Desiree Rubadiri, a returning writer and a highschooler who who loves God. She enjoys the wonders of nature that God…
Some people say The fear of God is the fear of death. Some people say God’s will is the fear of consequence.
When blind ambition erupts in our face, What is left but a faceless dream, As it slips through the seams of Opportunity and convenience
Is the best life the right life, Or is the right life the poor life? Choosing supplication over opportunism, Who really knows?
Riches or rags - can you have both? For what is poverty, If not an empty pocket. Or can it be an empty soul?
A rich man may dress in gems, But is there treasure in his home, When love is a bar of a gold As cold as his soul?
There is no right or wrong. There is only you and I, Discerning want and need and time, the time to be
Selfish or selfless, When to choose you over me, Or me over you. There is only a time and place for this
Post-modern answer. I can’t impose truth but suggest Truths for you to pick like fruit Off the tree of knowledge
Since absolutes are violence And tolerance progress And morals perverse in an age That is post-truth. Respectfully,
What is worth standing for When snipers are around you? Your silence is violence But your truth hate speech.
I believe in God, yet God offends, So I am offensive in my stance To the court of public opinion That are mobs of malevolence,
Shouting hate at the world From their privileged position of victimisation. Oh woe is me for my social deprivation: I’m a women at whim of men;
I’m a nigga at the whim of Supremists; I’m a muslim at the whim of the state. God help me from this intersectionality Under the subsections of oppression.
This is not what Dr King got shot for. This is not what Jan Paluch killed himself for. This is not what Mandela went to prison for. This is not what Jesus died for,
A world so self-righteous and entitled, Malevolent in its essence that it rallies Mobs to harm those with different views. Who would want to stand for that?
Yes I said that. Mashallah I said that!
I am not a decisive man, Nor am I a faithful man. I am just a man, Bending like branches in the wind,
Noble today, dishonourable tomorrow, A walking contradiction. Take my words like oil on water; Decide what is right and just,
Knowing that we are all paradoxes Of the views we espouse, But this is no excuse For indifference in a world shaped by violence.
I say this all as a call To help the Samaritan on the road, When he loses his way to the bandits of life, For we are all each others neighbours
On a path towards the grave. Is the stretch of earth not lonely? Is the sun not hot enough already? The least we can do is be tender-hearted
To the Ishmaels of our Isaacs, To the apostates of our faith. Let us lead by love And let it speak the truth
The winter winds freeze My eyelids close, yet blood flow cracks The crevice of the folded skin. Tears teem down the contours, Eroding these fissures. The salty droplets sting. It itches. I try rub the pain away, But the pain paints my eyelids red, Contour after contour, Until my fingertips hold scabs of skin.
Love and laughter here Despite the fear of Covid - this is therapy
A haiku is a short poem originally from Japan. It consists of only three lines. The first and third line are only five syllables whereas the second is seven syllables. It’s simple structure lends itself well to anyone who wants to try their hand at poetry without worrying about metre, rhyme and meaning.
As for the poem, I wrote it about a year ago. Some friends of mine that I meet online to write and discuss poetry put it on ourselves to explore other types of poems besides the conventional free verse form we all know and love. This was my contribution.
Samuel Rubadiri 