BONK’ABAJAHILE

BONK’ABAJAHILE

BONK’ABAJAHILE

And you once asked why
blacks
            live so fast
            love so fast
            drink so fast
                 die so fast
It doesn’t start with eMalangeni;
It doesn’t.
It starts with the number
you found smeared on the door
                                   of your home
– and you from school
– or from work.

             one and two
             three and four
             bonk’abajahile

The cement smile
of the teller at the bank
adopted as symbol of courtesy:
             work and save
             wear smart
             get yourself a hi-fi/tv
             buy yourself a car!

             one and two
             three and four
             bonk’abajahile

At Webber’s I saw him
running like mad
on a futile marathon
after he’d grabbed a bag
from that farmer
who pronounced “Mophela”
like “amaphela”.

I saw her pulling up her pantyhose
fixing her semi-Afrowig
With a blue eye and spitting blood
after a fight with another
of Playboy Joe’s girls’;
Playboy Joe was already at Umgababa
pulling dagga zol with other majitas,
And at Umgababa Alice’s Juba
wasn’t sour this afternoon.
             one and two
             three and four
             bonk’abajahile

I saw him wave an Okapi
under the Umnqadodo Bridge
to settle scores born of a factory life;
Umgababa’s guava tree broke
The guava fruit projectiled
onto Duma’s car:

                              Hammarsdale 1972.

The knife wound gave the telling of his death.
They covered his body with a Spinlon dustcoat
Waiting for someone to ring Inchanga 41.

             one and two
             three and four
             bonk’abajahile

Langashona’s hand against his face
A face long dead to wind the story;
A flower plucked off in bud
Down UNIT ONE SOUTH.
Msingi’s expressionless face
A face not squealing.
Bongi Ndlovu
She tried to run, to flee, to plead;
Which! Whack!
Into flesh came the bushknife
On the sand dunes she collapsed
Waiting for fate to say it’s over;
How she let her soul go
is a mystery to bemoan;
Can we blame her kind of life?
Can we blame the rage that held him
in spell?
If we are not saints
They’ll try to make us devils;
If we refuse to be devils
They’ll want to turn us into robots.
When criminal investigators
are becoming salesmen
When saints are ceasing to be saints
When devils are running back to Hell
It’s the Moment of Rise or Crawl
When this place becomes Mpumalanga
With the sun refusing to rise
When we fear our blackness
When we shun our anger
When we hate our virtues
When we don\'t trust our smiles.

             one and two
             three and four
             bonk’abajahile

Sing, how can we sing
             with chainblocks barring us
             the Malombo Sound?
Play, how can we play
             with games turning into nightmares?
Talk, should we not talk with deep open voices?
Wait, should we wait till the cows come home?