Look over your shoulder See how far you’ve come Between here & there See the spaces That friendship fills
So when you look back at life Don’t overlook The negative spaces No man is ‘self-made’ But is the fruit of their community Be it friend or foe, family or stranger
A hand was always helping
Poem 2
Friendship is a revolving door. Strangers come in while friends go out, Spinning your heart round and round
In silk moth secrets, Moments shared between you and them, and then
Remembering becomes your pastime, As you rewind the tape Of the revolving door.
Foul desire interrupts my lovely slumber At an unorthodox hour. My liver Regrets the affair with the liquor Who cuddles coldly beside me.
“Oh God, how’d that stranger get here!” With a shoving of sheets, she leaves the way I showed her in. At the door, I shiver and stumble. “See you soon.” She says. With a thud and splat,
Life is short, And love is shorter, Yet memories live forever, Says the bastard.
They plague souls at night, As the minds eye replays The bittersweet memory Of a rumble in the sheets, The song of the day That was the promise of forever,
All made meaningless In a passing of breath, A passing of bodies, And a gasping wind, Heard, in the pace, in which Wills walk wayward To secluded spaces.
Bottles pop, hemp burns, The house, a bed and breakfast. Guests check in and out. No one keeps you company, Except the thoughts of who should’ve kept you company.
The decadent demands love, Yet the poet deems them unworthy, For none are entitled to what they deserve
Overview: A couple are having a disagreement about the complements given. The man is excessive in his adoration to his wife while she is frustrated by his empty words.
Read by Samuel and Letang
Setting: It can be anywhere so long as the space is private enough for a husband to flirt with his wife.
Husband: Darling (pause), my love burns for you like a thousand suns!
Wife: Honey (reproaching tone) Let’s be more realistic. Your love doesn’t burn like a thousand suns. If anything, it burns like a lightbulb. Switched on or off by will!
Husband: But my dear (weakly exclaims), I’m trying to romance you.
Wife: uhuh(negation), there’s a difference between romance and whatever that is. Plus, it’s not even original. You’re biting off Shakespeare!
Husband: ahh! Can’t a man sweet-talk his woman?
Wife: He may if he’s sincere and original.
Husband: Okay, honey. I’ll keep that in mind.
The Next Day
Husband: My Darling, my love burns for you like a fire! (Hoping to charm her)
Wife: A fire… really? Only to be extinguished by my cold shoulder. What kind of love is that?
Husband: But I was trying. If you please, let me start over.
Wife: Fine, go ahead.
Husband: As far as the east is from the west, so too…
Wife: Is that from the Bible? (interrupts) What did we say last time?
Husband: Since when did you read the bible?
Wife: I don’t, but I heard it all the time at church as a kid.
Husband (to himself): I’m never gonna win.
The Next Day
Setting: A dressing room or a space with a mirror for the wife to admire herself.
Wife: Honey, how do I look?
Husband: You look like a cherry tree in full blossom.
Wife: A cherry tree? (disgusted)
Husband: What’s the problem now?
Wife: Do I look like I’ve ever seen a cherry tree? This is Botswana! That could be the most hideous thing ever.
Husband: Look! (shows a picture on the phone ) Don’t think the worst of me.
Wife: Aww, they’re so pretty. (She drops her guard for a moment) Wait! Aren’t these those trees I always see in your funny anime?
Husband: And if they were, what difference would it make? (He says pointing the phone at her as if she is guilty).
Wife: Cultural appropriation my dear! Cultural appropriation! (Pushing his phone down) We live in beautiful Africa, and here you go as a writer advertising foreign plants. (She moves towards the window or space that is occupied by nature, extending her hands to it) Home is never good enough huh? ( she turns back to face him)
Wife: Why couldn’t you say a jacaranda tree in full blossom?
Husband: My Darling… jacaranda trees aren’t indigenous to Africa. They’re from South America.
Wife: Ohh… uhh. Then a syringa.
Husband: They’re from Asia. In fact, both those trees are invasive species.
Wife: Mxm! Actually, since when did you know all these things? Telling me about plants. Ekse, how about you tell me my favourite flower? Would you keep that information in mind?
Husband: Ahhh! (he chokes) Darling what can I say? You know, oh. (pretends his phone is ringing) I think someone is calling me. YES! (runs off)
The Next Day
Husband: Baby, I love you.
Wife: Don’t tell me about love… show it!
Husband: Ahh, but I married you, bought you a diamond ring and drive you around town like a taxi. Is that not love?
Wife: No, those are obligations as a husband. It’s expected.
A long time ago, there lived a man from the East who owned a ring of unimaginable value. The stone was an opal that refracted hundreds of beautiful colours and had a secret power to make the bearer adored by God and mankind. It is no wonder then that the man from the East never let the ring escape his finger and decided rather to keep it safely at home. And so it was, he said that he would leave his ring to his favourite of sons who he loved the most, irrespective of the order of his birth. The power of the ring would make this son the head of the home and ruler of the region.
All three of the father’s sons were equally obedient to him, and so he loved all three the same. From time to time, when the father found himself alone with one of his sons, his weak heart would gush with love, confiding in each of them the promise, shared only between them: “you alone are worthy of the ring.” This could only go so long. Soon the good father was on his deathbed and had a dilemma. It pained him to have deceived two of his son, betraying his own promise.
What was to be done? He secretly commissioned an artist to replicate two more copies of his ring, ordering him to spare neither money nor effort in making the replicas completely identical to the original. The artist succeeded. Once the rings were presented to the father, not even he could distinguish the original from the copies. Glad and joyful, the father called each son in private, special to him in their own way, blessing them and bestowing them with his ring before dying.
Barely had the father died, and each son came with their ring, wanting to be the head of the house. They studied; they squabbled; they complained. There was no way to prove which ring was the right ring – just like religion. So the sons went to court, swearing to the judge that their father gave each of them the ring – which, dear reader, is truly spoken. Likewise, they recalled the promise made to each of them: “you alone are worthy of the ring.” The father affirmed each of them and could not have possibly lied, right? Such foul play, the sons reasoned, was not in their father’s good nature.
“There must be a traitor among us.” They said, “and we must get revenge!”
The judge spoke: “If your father can’t stand trial, then leave my court! Do you think I am here to solve mysteries? Or are you hoping for the right ring to open its mouth?”
“BUT!” The brothers objected.
“Stop! I understand that the ring has supernatural powers to make the wielder adored by God and mankind. Correct? Then it is settled. Obviously, the fake rings would not be able to do that.”
The brothers fell silent. Each tried to use the ring’s power to influence the other brothers. The judge watched the charade before interrupting.
“Now, tell me, among yourselves, which of your two brothers do you love the most?”
The brothers looked at one another uncertain, hoping to have possible to charmed their sibling. Yet nothing changed, and they felt ashamed.
“Speak up!” … “Why the silence? Does the ring not react, or is the person you love most yourself? Oh, I see. So you three are all deceived crooks! Your rings are all fakes, and the original was lost. To cover up the loss, your father likely made three fake rings.” The judge said.
Bringing his court session to a close, he spoke his mind: “If you want my verdict instead of my advice, I’d say ‘get out’, but as for my advice, I’d say accept things as they are. Each of you has a ring from your father, so go on and believe it to be the real one. It may well be that your father didn’t want to tolerate the tyranny of the One Ring in his house any longer. Also, he loved each of you, all the same, not wanting to favour one over the other.”
“Come on, don’t be jealous of your father’s generous love. Each of you should strive to manifest the power of the stone in the ring – if this power comes with meekness, genuine agreeability, good deeds and deep devotion to God. And when the powers of these stones reach your children’s children, even thousands of thousands of years later, invite them to my courtroom. They will see a wise old man, sitting on this chair, telling them to ‘get out’ as this humble judge does now.”
Explanation Notes and Comments:
The parable is an anecdote for religious tolerance, specifically between the three Abrahamic religions (Judaism, Christianity and Islam). The conflict between the three sons centers on the question of which ring is the true ring. In other words, which religion is the true religion. From the verdict given by the judge, he believes that it has been “lost” while the text suggests that there may well be one. However, that is not the moral of the story. Rather what the judge tries to get across to the sons is that the authenticity of the ring is not as important as the character of the one that wields it. In this light, Jew, Christian and Muslim ought to conduct themselves as if God the Father bestowed each of them with the true ring. In doing so, the power of the ring will be seen in acts of the bearer such as humility, good deeds and a deep devotion to God. So any fights over this matter are pointless.
I first came across this parable in my German literature class while at Studienkolleg. I found it so profound and timeless, for these disputes are still prevalent today , but not as bad as they were during the crusades. I’m very thankful for that! I think we all stand to learn something from each other if we decided to be a little more open-minded and live by the maxim of Aristotle — assuming to know nothing. In saying that I wish to take this thought a little further than what the text might allow. Maybe we can hold back on our firm opinions if the way we live reflects little of our ideals. In other words, ‘action speak louder than words’.
On a final note, for those who may have further interest in the story. It can be found in a play by Lessing called Nathan the Wise (Nathan der Weise). It is set during the crusades and explores this topic in much greater depth than this little article.
Disclaimer: This is my literal translation. I couldn’t find a decent English version. You can read the original German here.
Dedicated to nana in memory of her late brother Patrick
Had I not gone home,
I wouldn’t have seen you,
But that I’ve left home,
I won’t ever see you.
That summer was your last,
This winter took your breath,
And where you’ve gone,
I cannot visit, lest I, too, lose my breath.
It’s crazy how time winds you up
In our minds video player,
Tugging the tape over and over,
Until it frizzles out of place
How did you laugh,
What made you smile,
How did you sound,
What was it you’d always say?
I fear forgetting
All too many moments taken for granted:
Your jar full of sweets, your jarred way of speech,
And the walking stick you’d lug around.
Now the only sweets in the jar
Are sugar-coated memories
Of how you’d walk and talk
And carry that walking stick
On Christmas and Easter
When the whole family came over.
You’d wave us in for a reunion,
As we now wave you off in your departure.
***
It seemed like yesterday that
We were grandchildren,
Sitting at back of your bucky
En route to Kopong* or Metsimotlhaba*.
We’d pull faces at strangers,
Yelling masipa* at bad drivers.
Our bad manners were undercover
Thanks to the dust of our dirt roads.
You’d give us fresh milk from your cows
In old sprite bottles, tinting and tainting
The taste of sweet fresh milk,
Now sour with nostalgia. I miss it.
But what are my memories other than
Wasted words of time forsaken.
Your children and sister mourn
A shoulder they can no longer cry on.
Rest in peace as we toss these ashes
into the air. Go be the wind.
Passing with ease, not heeding our worries,
For your pains must die with death, I say.
Leave your grief in the grave for us,
Our sorrow shall water each regret,
Until you sprout in the smile of a grandchild,
For blood roots a family to a tree,
And fallen branches always regrow.
I foresee it, the offshoot, the namesake,
not by name but by manner. So I won’t be sad forever.
The past shall return in the newborn
with different eyes, I’ll greet your likeness.
“Where have you been all these years?”
“What do you mean? I’ve been here the whole time!”
The child would look strangely at me, and I’d just say:
“You just remind me so much of your great uncle.”
Kopong is a village in Botswana, in the Kweneng District.
Metsimotlhaba is another a village in the Kweneng District.
Masipa is a Setswana cuss word, the equivalent to ‘shit’.
Photo by Irina Iriser on Pexels.comBy Samuel Rubadiri
I remember how you’d lock me in your closet
Spraying deodorant if I disturbed you during prep*
Now I am disturbed by the locked closet
Coated in the scent of the chaplain’s incense
Boys in white carry you to the burial site
My sight, however, cannot overlook the smirk you had
when you called me a kaffir*
In silence I remain dwelling on these thoughts
Now that all chances of amends are gone
The offender is forever buried
while his offences survive
in my memories you rest in regret
I can only pray for the courage
to shovel this hate into the grave.
prep – colloquial word for homework time
kaffir – a racial slur for Africans, particularly in South Africa
Samuel Rubadiri 