THE WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION

THE FIRST ARCHIVES- A poetic journey into and through adolescence

THE WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION

The weapon of mass destruction lurks in every corner.

A suicide bomb is installed.

In who? By who? – remains unknown

Listen, and you will hear a hostage cry.

Listen again, but you will hear no more. The merciless beast has struck.

Listen once more, to the silent crawl of the mass destructive beast. You hear nothing yet it draws cl-o-se-r.

And CL-O-S-E-R.

Fear sticks you to the ground, your body is motionless.

The breath of the beast is near.

The bomb is implanted.

You are a hostage.

Listen once again, to hear your own cry.

Does anyone hear it too?

You long to see your family, once more, but

Shame does not allow for you to even glance.

You kneel to tell the world of the beast and it’s army,

But you are blind fold and your wrists are tied together.

You throat senses the cold metal touch as death wraps it fingers around your torso.

Your death is broadcast.

Someone… hears your cry.

The light goes off.

A boy takes a stand and the limelight is his.

He talks about the unleashed beast that has its grip on him.

A child, a boy from South Africa.

An orphan in a parentless struggle against the growing beast.

The beast does not tolerate abstinence so it will climb on to the peaks of every needle.

Camouflaged and hidden.

Dressed in combat gear, hidden it will remain,

There are many of its kind.

A baby is born without the arms to be cradled in.

The beast is aware and without a moment to spare….

Dead is the baby.

Dead is the child.

Dead are the children.

Dead, dead and dying.

I you can hear the plea of the boy.

The plea of the baby,

And the plea of the people.

If you have heard the plea of Nelson Mandela for his 86^th birthday.

Please hear mine.

AIDS is a weapon of mass destruction. HIV is a beast unleashed. We will remain HIV posistive until we tame the beast and free our families from its grip.

Help us end THIS war.

- This poem is so very dear to me because it is a poem I wrote in 2004. I must have been exposed to some form of televised news because I make references in here about former South African president, Nelson Mandela’s plea and birthday wish, which I remember being an aspiration to end all suffering from AIDS and HIV, and indeed being in my country one doesn’t have to go far to witness the ravaged remnants of an AIDS infested population. As much as people did try to hide it, there were posters everywhere advocating the use of condoms and even billboards urging people to get tested, public service announcements.. etc… etc. I also remember this was the era where I was first introduced to an America which was at war with terrorists. The word terrorist was thrown around the news constantly, in association with America. I felt sorry for my nation, which was and is being eaten alive by AIDS not to have as much publicity, and I thought ‘this is a war too’, we are all fighting against AIDS and the spread of HIV. I also make a reference to ‘a boy’ in my poem, his name is Nkosi Johnson, a South African boy, born with AIDS. Johnson put a face on AIDS and was and is considered a child AIDS activist. I only heard of him in 2004, he had died in 2001, but I had the privilege of hearing one of his speeches given in the year 2000 where he addressed delegates from all over the world in Durban at the 13^th international Aids Conference. He shook my world. I will not forget him and in honour of him I will strive to continue his work as an AIDS activist myself. This poem was published in TACAIDS a bimonthly magazine distributed all over Tanzania in 2004.

DRUM

THE FIRST ARCHIVES- a poetic journey into and through adolescence

DRUM

Hairless and bald, revealing more brown skin.

Afro-licious- statcic hairs stand alive.

Neatly braided heads never go unnoticed.

Short, small. Big , tall.

From size to size, One to all.

From the richest ebony to the darkest night,

From copper coins to golden grains we yield,

From the deepest black to the lightest brown.

The Masia warrior who hunts the lion, while his eldest rears the oxen.

The strict teacher, who whips as punishment.

The Christian priest who lives by the Bible.

The “Bibi” who thanks the lord for every blessing, while her neighbours devour the “gongo” , much awaited since the last harvest.
The hard working farmer, that wakes at dawn.

The orphan who takes up the title of prostitute.

The common mosquito biting pick pocket who leaves the victim itching at his loss.

The vegetarian “Rasta” avoiding the drug abused “Rasta” who wears dishevelled locks and reddened eyes.

“Kibalakashe” on head “kanzu” ironed ready for prayer.

A stranger startled, by the strike of HIV.

A whimpering child, raped and abused. Surviving.

The busy “shamba” girl trying to balance school, home and shamba. None willing to toss her a bone.

The witch doctor chants.

The young man studying at midnight by the lamp oil, striving for better knowing the harshness of his world.

The shoe polisher, fish mongers and street vendors who meet up by the kiosk.

We are all a people,

Of the same tribe,

Warrior behind the same shield.

HIV sufferers, all are we.

Positive or negative we all suffer the loss,

As HIV continues to feast on the nation mercilessly.

God is not our enemy, we are a people of the same origin.

Much I cannot explain.

Examples and samples will not bring justice.

As we toil and laze under the African sun,

We carry our heritage from the darkest black to the brownest gold.

Hear the drum of the African.

This is the picture that was and still is Africa to me. I am African but have never settled there. This is a picture that is painted partly by the recollections of my parents and our African friends/family living outside of Africa and partly what I saw and felt during my month-long visits. It is hard for me to call it home but is easy to call myself African. I included excerpts of references towards HIV because even though there is a huge stigma surrounding it, it’s so very prevalent and cannot be denied in the African society. Africa, or at least ‘my Africa’ is infused with so many great traditions, great people, great customs, fun times and family yet whether we like to accept it or not HIV and poverty is a part of Africa, and as I put pen to paper I cannot deny myself my written truth.

Death of a Mother

THE FIRST ARCHIVES- A poetic journey into and through adolescence

Death of a Mother

Twenty three years between us.

Gravea and groud between us.

Heaven earth between us.

Mother was kind.

Mother was mine.

But, I was blind,

Pneumonia stole her.

A few words were said,

Mother sleeps in her new bed.

Down she goes.. into the ground.

Doesn’t even make a sound.

Howls and screams erupt.

I watch the ground swallow her whole.

They say goodbye to her sweet soul.

Mother is gone into the ground.

Her spirit spins around and around.

Mother watches from the cloud,

Playing the games that pneumonia forbid

Pneumonia can never find you mother, for you are safely hid.

I see mother happy and free

I see mother smiling at me.

Death Of A Mother was my 15 year old written description of a funeral. My love for writing was still fresh then, the poem was inspired by a funeral I had attended where three siblings all under the age of fourteen returned to the village to bury their mother. Only the oldest who was about twelve seemed to really recognise the grave chapter unfolding before him. I watched his body remain standing motionless while a fountain of tears sprung from his pink, blood shot eyes. I later came to find out that his mother had actually died of AIDS , due to the intense stigma of HIV / AIDS the family tried to conceal her illness and claim that it was pneumonia.