I am very much inspired when i read the works of one of the greatest African writer -controversial in many ways, but one who can even outshine the likes of William Shakespeare. One who refused to be pigeon holed into the confines of African writers, but presented hiself as just a writer. The writer who was never celebrated in his own country but recognised internationally. The old adage which says heros are honoured when they are dead is a true testimony for this iconic writer who died a poor man despite his beautiful works.
The earth is ever hungry swallowing all the good people, leaving those that are not wanted by the multitudes. This thought even enlightened me, i have come to notice that DEMOCRACY is nothing but just a creation of an evil mind wanting to stay on influential post for eternity,.... to hell with that animal you call Demo..whatever, it exists not not on this earth or even in heaven.
I don't want to say much, lets just know that we are not of here.......
A black rose amongst black butterflies.
In a garden marked by years, decades even.
A useful thing in a fluid void, a black hole.
Your London experience and with it
Came the wuthering heights of depression.
Of a suicidal illness. Schizophrenia.
Alcoholism was a terrible force of nature
Within you. The nature of the beast is seduction.
Seduction theory. A useful thing for gods
And hungry men, the wheel, the cogs,
Pins and needles sweeping poetry into your mind.
Stories for young Africa. Where is the logic?
Where is the logic in all of this?
All I can see is weeds. The Portuguese.
The mannequin in the shop window.
The politics of the puppet and puppeteer.
Who will do the clearing, the planting?
And the harvesting of suicidal depression?
We lost a great one. The marriage
Of his mind to thousands, to millions.
To women, to muses, to goddesses, to God.
We will always love you Marechera.
Praise you, worship you, and put you on a pedestal.
Every man must drown his spirits.
You gave me an education on a cemetery.
A London experience when I had none.
Love when I had none, assignations and assignments.
I live in exile with my journal, incense and tea.
Feel my heart. Does it not feel like ice to you?
Yet it is still beating. This grotesque mass.
A bleeding network of the data of platelets
And mitochondria that I am a collector of.
Turn away. Look back at the miracle rising
That is she. Africa. Black. Water. White. Skin.
If we are all deconstructed we will face up
To the familiar humanity, and familiar family.
