If you think you’re really cool, here’s something about you

I envy those whom expensive things excite, who dream of wearing that logo only to flaunt it, who feel faking accents sets them apart (oh, yes its does), who think success is about driving that car or paying for that grand tag, who believe they are classy and have their own glittery definition of it, who look for shortcuts, who look for results and not learning. The wannabes who never stop shouting. 

I envy them because their dreams are small and shallow. They are the parasites who thrive on an uneducated living, which is not to say they haven’t been to school. They have read for money. They have read for status quo.

I feel sorry for them because they are soulless, materialistic and ignorant unless you spot one with some sense of intellect, selflessness or compassion because for most of them social responsibility is another logo, a way of getting spotted.

The frivolity, the keenness on achieving popularity, the lack of compassion, and to be utterly blunt the loss of good cultural influence in the presence of all that bling. I understand we encourage this. 

I am fierce in writing this. I am almost convinced that they won’t read this and I am upset about this. If they did, they’d know themselves right away.

Why on earth am I writing about it? It saddens me that we are overpopulated with so many poor examples. Guess I could bear one or two here and there but imagine these are going to spread! 

Unearthing the answers

What is wrong with things that go haywire and situations that run out of control? Are they seeking something without knowing it? 

What is wrong with my attention? What is wrong with your patience? What is right about this day, if anything?

For all the my questions unanswered, yes, I did make up some lies. What was wrong with your mood and what is right with it now?

You think I can let you face my questions again. You think they are sitting around.

Even seasons don’t wait for the sun.

For it is not a question of honour, it is of trust. If the answers are any different, how do you think my heart will trust me ever again? 


A strange bird in Walter Sisulu,   South Africa. Strange because I can’t tell which.Apparently, I’m never going to be done with memories. 

How does one go to sleep? 

Even when it’s dark, a dim light pierces in

Even when the mood in the room is still, breeze sweeps in, a strange breeze

When there is hope of the morning

When there is much to do

How does one close eyes? How does one go to sleep?

All open eyes in the night don’t weep

All open eyes in the night aren’t afraid

Some may paint, plan, or pray. Some just climb from one thought to another.

Some think sleep might kill their night. Ferocious, ambitious, sincere night.

Some splash the time on the air

Some splice the air into quarters and see them as musings and blow them into blisters, blisters of each such night so that the question remains.

How does one go to sleep? 

What a time it was!

It takes an open heart to open another

A presence,  rather than an alarm,  to awaken the other

A slang, and sometimes a misunderstanding,  to bring the other closer

A voice, sometimes nasal, to get the other going

A move to get the other dancing

A mood to have the other joking

And lots of love to make 333

A home the other would like to return to

Those few and close ones would know the girl who made me do what would never have happened without her, yes, all of the above, yes, dip-tea

I think I know you…


Station 0

On station 0 you find a red bus that offers ‘free rides to the funk ones’

So those who want to go to their there, are taken to their there. And those who want to go anywhere are left far behind. 

The seats are teal, the last sponge tattered

The driver’s cap, the saffron of a lifejacket. The floor is a gleaming grey. 

Then there’s also a funny man who doesn’t  smile at all. All appears all right till he has a customer.

Remember the ride is free? His job is to hand them receipts. 

Nobody likes to be called funk, nobody likes to be worked on that hard. And nobody likes to be known so much so that they fall card after card.

The funny man takes such all and tells them what he tells everyone.  And tells them what is typed on the receipt in black and in courier sans.

That you’re there a tad.

That life’s going to be hard. 

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