Staffrider Vol.5 No.2 1982 - DISA

POETRY
JOSEPH MOLADIRA
BLACK AS I AM
Black as ebony; Black as soot,
Black as the darkness of a thoughtless brain,
As the starless midnight with a cloud-shaded moon,
As the gloomy cloud of a thunderous rainfall,
I keep my faith to increase my hope.
I wield my weapon like a mighty warrior
That paves his way out of grief and hatred
Armed to the palm of an empty hand;
Angered to the bitterness of a fiery tongue.
Black as the garment of a bereaved widow;
As the pupil of my own eye,
That sees sorrow without a watch;
As the despair of a convict,
That lies condemned in the death cell;
I drop my tears in lament,
In solitude; at prayer;
In the meditation of a wounded bull,
When life and death are nothing else
But equidistant destinies from me.
Black as my own blood;
Like the sweat of a forefather in times of slavery
Like an opaque barrier that bars me from prosperity
Like fears at night confined in a haunted house
I hit my chest thrice with pride,
As I stand at the fore
Of the scattered fragments of nations.
I am the survivor without doubt.
I am the conqueror of a paralyzed foe.
This land which lacks justice
Is the pavillion of my rest.
Here, a deed shall be done.
THE ANSWER
Not in the sky
where birds flap their wings in ecstasy,
singing the sweet melody of their taste of life.
Not in the sea
where the carapace of the fish desalts the mighty waters.
Not in dreams
where ancestors vigilantly hold their reign
But in the thought of a brain,
the nourishment of flesh and soul;
the seed of heroism and victory;
lies the answer.
Not beyond the horizon
where the sky falls into eternity;
Not on the escarpment
where rainwater flows back to the sea;
Not at the sea-level
where water and air constantly meet;
But in the mind
the palace of conquest and existence;
the very reservoir of might and will;
lies the answer.
Not in the shed blood of a sacrificial lamb
drunk by the dark soil at the last bleat;
Not in prison cells
where men buzz off their thought of manhood;
Not in the grave
where ghosts and night creatures refuse to rest
as maggots feed on flesh to clean the bone;
But in the tintinabulations of the heart
as the fresh gush of blood sends away
ripples of hope for peace throughout the veins.
There the answer is buried.
EVICTION
Soon to take place,
Seven days' notice!
Reasons are crystal clear:
Rent arrears;
Lack of qualifications for house ownership;
For full citizenship,
Or the right to exist on my heritage.
Dogs have kennels; Cows have kraals;
Pigs have sties; Horses have stables.
Where shall my brothers dwell?
Wherein shall our children live?
They shall take to the forest
And smell on the track of savage beasts.
They shall saunter across the trackless desert
Where drought and thirst prevail.
Who told them not to seek shelter
Where their fathers' hands built?
Tell the mother bird
not to lay eggs on her dexterously woven nest.
Who demands payment for the water they drink?
Go! Tell the mother duck
not to swim on nature's free fountain.
We do not want to exist but to live.
Impatient hosts of unbearable parasites:
Lice shall drink our fresh blood;
Dogs shall lick the sweat off our brows;
Bats shall hang on our hairs
Worms shall wait for our bodies to rot . . .
Ho! We do not want to exist but to live!
Forlorn mercy; merciless hearts;
Heartless inhumanity; inhuman brutality;
What nature is this, our life?
No one heard the widow's lament.
No one cared for the children's cry,
When a policeman armed to the teeth,
Armed with a baton, hauling a gun,
Telling the message, doing justice:
Eviction soon to take place,
Seven days' notice.
STAFFRIDER, VOL. 5 NO. 2, 1982 19