DAUGHTER OF THESE SOILS

I am not Steve Biko, for I cannot write what I like.

As my black consciousness is still oppressed by my pride.

 
I can try to be Ghandi,
But I can only do so much as change the world with just a paper and a pen.
 
Please do not Ask me to be Mandela
For I can only seek vengeance, not peace for my enemies.
I may not possess a forgiving heart for the hardship that was once bestowed upon me!
 
I can aspire to be Martin Luther King Jnr
For I have dreamed that one day I will travel the world without fear that I may never return home.
Dreams that maybe one day the crimes I committed with my skin colour will be found not guilty.
 
I can never be like Solomon Mahlangu.
For with its poison, my blood will kill the seeds that were meant to give rise to fruits of freedom.
Only weeds of hatred and suffering will grow on the soils nurtured by my blood.
 
Please I beg you do not compare me to the father of Humanity Robert Sobukwe.
For I am but a rebel daughter who murdered peace, kidnapped freedom itself.
My kindness is only war, my love brings only death.
 
But I am a black child of Africa,
Made a foreigner in my own continent.
Forced to feed off the scrapes that fall from the tables of those in power.
Like parasites they feed on my land,
I am meant to serve them the riches my forefathers gave to my people.
 
Do not ask me to be something I am not…
 
For Iam the DAUGHTER OF THESE SOILS!
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Featured post

First blog post

This blog is but a new beginning to me. As yesterday struggles fade with the setting sun, my today begins at the break of dawn.

My name is Sizwe Samkelisiwe Buthelezi, I am firstly a child of God, a poet, writer and a qualified Plant pathologist. On this blog I will be sharing my struggles and triumphs through poetry, stories and motivation.

I hope one day I can change the world with just a Paper and a Pen

#SpokenInRiddles

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Featured post

Where was God?

Spoken In Riddles

Often times we encounter the question Where is God when things go wrong? Hence  why I decided to write the following poem, deriving it from most of the questions a lot of people have asked me. Where was God? The bible answers this question (John verses 1-4 ).

Where was God

Where was god, when the chimney smoke died?

For the fire cannot be lit.

When the fuel to keep it burning was swallowed by those with greed

Where was God when fields went bare and the soils hardened?

When the seeds sown wilted and the pests devoured.

When the rib cages swallowed and kept prisoner what was on the young’s flesh

Where was God

When the young men drank their sorrows to death, fathers hanged by their necks

And mother’s slaughtered in front of their children.

Where was God when the cotton fields were watered with the sweat of…

View original post 125 more words

The Garden

The Stories In Between

Dangling on the wrong side of yesterday
Searching for what I never had, within what’s left
Waiting for meaning in sun-bleached tomorrows
That never come
I wait, fading into times of solitude, obscurity
Trembling hands penetrate the earth
Digging a place for these hollow seeds
Sowing the indifference of days past
And those yet to come
But sometimes a breeze will blow
Hard enough to remind me
There’s something more beyond this
Empty plot where nothing new grows
Walled in, to protect the fragile, fertile soil
Buried memories, one-by-one, the regret
Never deep enough to contain their regrowth
But that’s okay, I suppose, there’s a reason for it all
In time I may understand, the way things grow
Within, beyond our control
As I wait for springtime and the possibility of new life
From the old, as the words drip from my mouth
To nourish these sentiments
That may one…

View original post 12 more words

Memories

I would hold on, but it seems there is nothing to hold on to

I would remember but my memories have since aged and succumbed to pain.

The face that was once my mother’s, now just a blur

A smudge, on memory’s coat.

 

I would remember him, but it seems time forgets

and the mind seeks to erase that which was not common.

I would know him, but it seems fate would not have me revisit history.

The face that was once my father’s, now……

Now I do not remember what he looked like.

 

I am very lucky…..

This Poem is dedicated to Josiah Skeats for his birthday.- A traveller who has carries with him a piece of my heart….

 

I could write you a song, to say I love you this much

But will you have eternity to listen to that song?

Maybe I could even draw you a map, to say I love you this far.

But I’m afraid you’ll get lost amid that adventure.

 

Well I will write you this poem,

 to tell you how lucky I am to have loved you.

 

I am lucky to have walked the streets of Bo-Kaap holding your hand

Lucky to have kissed you as the sun set in Walley’s cave.

Woke up in your arms as it rose again in somewhere in Table view.

As you waved me goodbye…

I am lucky to have loved you 12530000 seconds and counting.

 

I am blessed to have ran in the rain just to see your face again.

Blessed to have shared a vetkoeks, stories of adventures and laughter.

I am blessed to danced in the absence of music

sang with you as strangers watched in awe.

I am blessed to have loved you for 208800 minutes and counting…

 

Maybe I am lucky to have kissed you in the audience of giraffes

and birds in the wilderness.

Lucky to be lay on your chest as you recount your fortunes and misfortunes

I am lucky to have had you look at me

Like nothing existed but us

I am lucky to have loved you 3480 hours and counting………

 

I am lucky to have swiped right and said hello

Lucky to have been there for a conversation

I am lucky to have overcome my fears

Answered your call and welcomed you into my life

I am very lucky to have loved you for 145 days and counting…

 

I love you and I will see you soon.

Happy Birthday Sthandwa sami

Africa Return to the Soil

Africa return to the soil

maybe one day you will be reborn with the spirit of Ubuntu

Humanity restored, shame buried in the ashes.

Return to the soil

so mothers will no longer weep for their daughters,

fathers for their sons.

 

Africa Return to the soil

Let your mountains be reborn

beneath the springs of your rivers.

Love restored, brutality buried in the depths and forgotten

Return to the soil

So sisters will no longer have to bury their brothers.

 

Africa Return to the soil

Let your spirit be reborn in the Serengeti’s of peace

beyond the valleys of prosperity.

Africa restored, hate buried with the past

peace shared like stories of old.

Return to the Soil for you children have forgotten that we are one..

#StopXenophobia

 

 

 

The hand that gives…

May I be the hand that gives love

Unselfish, sincere love.

May I be the hand that gives water to the thirsty

and food to the hungry.

 

I pray that I may be kind, selfless and true

May I bring peace and harmony in the midst of war

I pray that I may be wise, mindful and brave

Be the light to those who are lost, lend a a hand to those who are weary.

 

May I be patient, hopeful and faithful

seek not for myself  and take not that which is meant for others.

May I hope for a brighter future,

keep the faith for things prayed for.

 

 

White Picket Fences

When I was young, I did not know I was black, or better yet I did not know there was a colour assigned to me. I did not know that this colour came with such struggles and difficulties, all I knew is that I was human. See I grew up in a small village up in the Lebombo mountains of KwaZulu Natal, South Africa. With grace I went to a private school and so I was exposed to different human beings (notice I did not say races). Yes I noticed that the other kids had a lighter shade of skin and straight hair as compared to my darker shade and curly hair. In my community, everyone was equal, we all lived together in the same villages with no fences and and sense of superiority, we were people who interacted and treated one another with ubuntu and integrity. I never saw my self different from the other kids and I never knew what racism was until…

I had my first encounter with racism in my first year of University, I was at church one evening attending a music lesson. I was having a conversation with an 8 year old white boy, amidst the conversation we disagreed on something, he then told me I was wrong and he was right because he was white which meant his brain was bigger than mine as a black person which made him clever than me. I stook there for a second, lost of words and then I asked him where he got that from. He answered and said “My dad told me, he told me your brain is as small as a monkey’s brain” I looked at this little boy who was convinced that his light skin made him superior or clever than me, I pitied him and at the same time I was angry at his father for teaching him such rubbish. You see this young boy will grow up with this mentality and maybe even pass it on to his children, the belief that his skin shade (not colour) meant he was better. This was my first encounter and many more followed after that as the years went by.

The atrocities committed by the apartheid government will continue haunt my country for a very long time. You see apartheid did not only separate people based on their skin colour but also based on language or tribes, it created a system of distrust amongst black people which is still visible to this day. It create a mental prison for black South African wich made us believe that we cannot survive without the white man. The system was not just about removing people from one place to another or restricting their movement but it was rooted in destroying all the self worth and inspirations the people had.

I was born in 1994, a year many thought would be the beginning of good things, freedom and peace but I ever since I moved to the city I have seen a few good things, experienced some freedom and a little peace. I have experienced the full wrath of the “Curse” I carry on my skin (melanin) which has sentenced me to a life of continuously having to prove myself, having to act, dress and speak a certain way so I will be considered “civilised” or better yet “A better black.” I have continuously paid the price for my pigmentation and I have served the sentence for crimes I committed by being black. I know this will not sit well with a lot of people but I am scared, I’m scared that my people (South African’s) will turn against one another. I’m scared that we are going to destroy this beautiful nation instead of building  and uniting it.

Another challenge this beautiful country is facing is crime. However, there are misconceptions that classify every black person as a criminal but those who hold these misconceptions fail to see that the issue of crime is affecting every South African (light or darker). I’ve been a victim of crime many times, my skin colour does not exempt me from this and no, I do not know or have any connection with a criminal (Another misconception). You see, I fear men more that I fear beasts and NOT ALL BLACK PEOPLE ARE CRIMINALS.

If we could stop hating each other or spreading misconceptions and distrust amongst one another, instead come together as a nation and work on solutions on how to fight the issue of crime, corruption and racism in our country. I believe we will thrive but it will take each one of us to stop letting our skin shade/pride get the better of us.

Lastly…If I was given a chance to choose, knowing all this..I will still choose to be black….

Words of Love

You fooled me with words of love while the world laughed at my face

You toyed with my emotions while you voice sounded so sincere.

What is this thing you call love?

and is it suppose to hurt?

 

You fooled me with words of love while the blind clearly saw your lies

You fiddled with my feeling while you touch felt so real.

What is this thing called love?

and is it suppose to make me bleed?

 

You told me a story riddled with words of love while the old knew it was a fairytale

You played with my heart while your gaze saw right into my soul

What is thing called love?

and is it all a lie?

 

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