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Kgebetli Moele

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Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

10 years ago to this day

Milestones.

There are milestones in life, all most all beyond our mental comprehension that we never realise and few so manageable that we can celebrate. We think that it is a milestone, a mark of history. Take your wedding anniversary for instance. All the hard work you put into that wedding day and the money that you parted with just to feed, drown your family and friends in liquor. But you forget the first milestone that led to you organising a wedding. The day he met you or that day she accepted your love or the day of the official wedding, so which one is the milestone?

Room 207Room 207 was poured into the public sphere 10 years ago. So what? It is not special, there were nearly four hundred books of fiction that were published that year. Excuse me for my cynicism; I have lived with being cynical all my life.

A boy announces that he is celebrating his birthday and the cynicks ask him, “Why don’t you celebrate the day you got conceived.” That is me putting it mildly, his phrasing was extra hot, not meant for the likes of you. “Better still why don’t you celebrate the day your mother said yes to your father because look at your mother and look at your father. Something is definitely wrong. So why don’t you celebrate that miracle because without it you would not have been here.”

“Better still, why don’t you celebrate the tiny bravery that came to your father to utter those beautiful words. Better still why don’t you celebrate the school that brought them together because without which, you wouldn’t be here.” The cynical bastard.

But because I like words. I love words; they have meaning to me more than the sum of you. The mark?

Is it Room 207?

Is it the school of individuals who taught me to read and write?

Is it me and the day I was born?

Is it that day of copulation?

Is it that day she said yes?

Or the conditions that made her say yes?

Is it the bravery that surged and force him to utter the words?

I don’t know. I am sorry I don’t know. Because it is always easy to say that the wedding was the milestone. Really? That is why we mark it and have anniversary celebrations, but that was the worse day of your life. The eight months to a year of preparation, and all you did was sit there in front of your quests, holding your heart and hoping that nothing went wrong. The only people who enjoyed your wedding day were the quests, they ate, they drank and they danced into the early morning hours, probably the main three things that they will remember forever about your wedding.

This is the fact of life: the greatest and the most wonderful moments of our lives are lived and neglected because we will be so absorbed in our perceptions or focusing to really appreciate the Greatest Moment of life.

This Greatest Moment of life is only for fools to pin down and mark. It is for the miserable couple to celebrate an anniversary, as the wedding was the mark for greater things coming, a celebration without an end. And whoever celebrates a birthday neglects all the Greatest Moments that came after the birthday.

This is that moment of Greatness; I pause, think and remember, relive and replay, for every moment of this life I treasure, I celebrate everyday for everyday is a milestone and I, I am a Milestone.

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When we run dry

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There is a Sotho proverb that warns the fish to hope for mud, as the water dried while it was not looking. It is not cynical at all, merely a friendly warning to the fish – who of course is not really a fish. It is a warning to humans to be prepared for the unthinkable, hence we have insurance and life cover. It is a hope that we will survive in the mud when the water runs dry.

Today, I was crisscrossing my mind, searching for answers that I already know. Why would I perform such a futile exercise? Well, because I have discovered that the world is full of lies and half-truths. I was reviewing the answers I already have, for they may all be wrong.

In all our lives we have lived a dozen lies believing them to be true, to the extent that we do not even question them. On the rare occassion we do question them, we only have professors, pastors, teachers and parents to ask. Professors tell you theories. Pastors teach us the word that they themselves don’t even understand; they can never give a reason why Noah cursed Canaan. Teachers who teach because they were taught that way. I was told that children come from aeroplanes. I was a child; I believed the foolish explanation, and when an aeroplane was flying past I asked for a “toy” baby brother to play with. These lies made me a fool because being fooled was part of my upbringing.

That is another issue altogether. Here and now: How much creativity is in an individual? My girlfriend – the only female intellectual I ever kissed, born on a farm, raised by a grandmother on social welfare and a graduate of the University of the North (please, on your feet, a round of applause) – the one who loves to read books. She shared a tear when she read that Timbila had shut its doors. She knew, read and loved the poet Vonani Bila, mostly because of Dahl Street and the poem in which Vonani was healing his raging but helpless self after his apartment was broken into and blaming “Boys from Seshego”.

She also fell in love with all the closet poets that Bila presented on an international stage.

Again on your feet: A moment of silence for Timbila and Vonani Bila.

My girlfriend, she commented: “Bila’s creativity has run out, it is all dry and now he can focus on important things about life and living.”

The statement had a load of implications, so I pretended that I did not fully understand it. But I did, hence this question: How much creativity is in an individual?

My colleague, the great Zukiswa Wanner, believes that every living soul has one book running within their veins. She characterises a writer as someone who has written a book and an author as one who has written more than three books. I asked, what about manuscripts? She gave a short answer: “Manuscripts do not count.”

The argument was filtered to this: Everyone can do 60 minutes of stand-up comedy and lift many people out of their miserable lives. Come the 61st minute, the comedian will have shitted out all that he had naturally and now has to think hard. If they make it to the 121st minute and we are still dead, laughing ourselves out of our miserable lives, it is true creativity. Most comedians are stuck under 60 minutes with just a one-hour DVD and the second hour, you can’t even stand to watch it to the end.

Bila is a creative individual. I defend Bila. That is one of the things that Timbila could not avoid; it was run for the sake of creativity, it traded on creativity rather than profit. As great as all his poets were, they did not make a substantial living from their publications. He was happy when some of us worshipped them and the world knew them. Sales and academic recommendation were far away from Timbila’ modus operandi. I think. I know that Bila was not tired of being a poet – it is in his blood – as Mpho Ramaano is. Yes, we do not have any more offerings from Ramaano but ask any woman who provokes his men what kind of praises flow out of his mouth.

Give any writer money and a story and ask them to produce in a month. My girlfriend thinks that I can never offer anything more powerful than what I already have on the table. I say, test me and see if I cannot grant you another Book of the Dead, one which has nothing to do with HIV/Aids but is equally powerful and revelling. Test me and find out how many manuscripts are laying waste and gathering digital dust in my digital drawer. Try me and see how many books I have stored in the compartments of this head basket.

When you see Timbila and the likes close down it is not because talent has run dry but because the rain never came to water it. If you don’t see any more of Moele on the shelves, just know that the investments are returning negative in this rented life.

Vonani Bila has talent, immense talent, but this life is for rent and we have to pay.


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‘Timbila, don’t find rest’ – A love letter to a now deceased poetry journal

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Words of Tears

In the last instalment of Timbila – Volume 7Vonani Bila closes the editor’s notes:

It starts with reading. To foster a South African literary tradition, we need to harness all efforts to build a national writers’ association, to encourage a culture of translation, and support multilingual literary journals like Kotaz, Timbila and Botsotso. We need to build libraries and literary museums in rural areas. Let us honour the rural communities that gave us great writers by giving them education facilities, essential social services, and the opportunity to read.

This is after a rant about all the great writers that are products of de-privileged rural South African communities. This was the vision and the basic purpose of Timbila, a role that it wanted to fulfil: unearth and nurture voices in any language and domain. That critical word, “was”: Timbila is no longer with us, the living. The lifeblood that was beating there has fallen victim to the obligations of life. People do grow and maybe Timbila was another folly of youth.

This folly that I have fallen in love with; her tune invaded and extended my time in the loo.

He drinks me like wine
the kind he’d buy
glances at his watch
as he gently taps my emptying bottle
and strokes the unbroken ‘O’ of its lips

The harmony of that Timbila presented the fifth dimension of life, knowledge that words are not for academia and William Shakespeare was not meant for school but for life.

Just one more gulp –
He speaks: I swoon
and spill out the corners of his mouth

It has in its short life unearthed some of the greatest contemporary voices of our democracy. Timbila presented us with the likes of Vonani Bila – the passionate poet who, himself lost and starving within the cracks of this illiterate country, created a platform for the footpath/street corner wordsmith to be realised as a poet. An applause, please.

Goodenough Mashego – a rural wordsmith from rural Mpumalanga. He, who made Shatale township a beautiful living being, caressed and made love to her. Cried in her arms and ridiculed him when he became inhuman.

He takes a handkerchief
and carefully
wipes the mess
before it lands on his shirt.
Smiles apologetically:
A bit of caution, my dear.

The list is endless, Myesha Jenkins – the woman from America who divorced the first world for our beautiful economy class country. Makhosana Xaba – she made a mark because of Timbila, Mpho Ramaano, Mbongeni Khumalo, Kopano Dibakwane, David wa Maahlamela, Moses Mtileni and, from the dungeon of life, Timbila saved and presented to the nation Tshifhiwa Given Mukwevho, who to this day possesses no power to disempower. The list goes on and on.

Possessed
by a thirst
that only the devil could
bestow.
He drinks me.

I would never have crisscrossed the minds of these poets but because Timbila presented them with love and care I knew their deep thoughts. Timbila did not remodel the poet for purposes of exploration but in order to harness and harvest what was inside.

He drinks to the very dregs
of my youth.
And – lost in psychedelic illusions –
exposes the man-child
and his games.

As one who has fallen in love with words, words enjoyed in moments, verses of life, these words more potent than a shot of angel dust or a pull of nyaope.

Futile, I hear you say, but satisfying and addictive. Addictive because you can never get enough of it. You always need it and when the supply goes, WHEN THE SUPPLY CLOSES SHOP, you are left with a scorching headache and nowhere to doctor it. Yes, you can browse your favourite bookshop but Timbila, like angel dust, is never in the mainstream. Drugs are illegal and if one supplier goes another sprouts out but in the case of Timbila, of words, it is exclusive, for very, very few.

My beautiful girl, the bone of my bones once said it as she un-boned herself from my bones:

Poetry doesn’t feed babies

Yes, black men are a virile lot and babies need be fed.

Yet I chose to play –
I allow him to swallow
me in exchange
for this mockery of love:
I am his Venus today,
His piss tomorrow

Timbila, don’t find rest.


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Review: Shutter Man by Richard Montanari

Shutter ManThe Great Crime Thriller will always have a setup crime, with every act relating directly to this crime, and the thrill of crime fiction is the mystery of how it – it, it might be the wit of the investigator, the shrewdness of the perpetrators and the chase – unravel until the perpetrators are caught or the crime is solved.

Richard Montanari sets up the crime scene – the gruesome murder of a family of three and three more subsequent ritual murders with the same MO. Then the author takes a detour; the bombing of a house, the suspicious death of Detective Byne’s childhood friends and the epic look into the Farren crime family, as well as the unsolved murders of eleven-year-old Catriona Daugherty and her “supposed” killer Des Farren. These detours in the end serve no purpose or function to the story as they remain unsolved.

There are very few moments of brilliance in this tale and the story falls face down at the end when answers that were supposed to be an integral part of the story become statements from the characters. What is really a Sotar square? And how does it relate and influence the murders of these witnesses and their face skinning, and their birth certificates? How was the brutality of murdering these witnesses going to elevate a family curse? Because if criminals leave clues, it is always with intent or an unfortunate mishap. Here Montanari sets up the playing field but fails to master it.

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Review: Fifteen Dogs by Andre Alexis

Fifteen DogsWhat would happen if animals had human like intelligence? That they could feel, be angry and rage, love and laugh, feel inadequate and fight to have – what all humans need – power and respect while struggling to live a perfect lives and die happy.

Author André Alexis drives us into this world by giving human intelligence to a pack of dogs. Fifteen dogs, hence the title, are blessed with human intelligence or rather cursed with it. Blessed, as they can assert their lives and be better dogs. Cursed, as animals are much better suited to living animal lives without human burdens and consequences.

FYI: Human reproduction: we complicate this with the word LOVE and almost all of our female counterparts have found themselves burdened after this magical mystical word has been through their ears. Love brings about human reproduction and we decorate it and call it love but that is no love. It is in a way the creation of poverty.

The allegory that George Orwell presented in Animal Farm: the power relations between the animals taught us about our power relations as people, as nations and as countries. That unforgiving truth that is hard to live with: All animals are equal but some are more equal than others. You love it or you loath it, it speaks universal truth.

The premise is the same for both books but the settings are different: in Fifteen Dogs the dogs are given human intelligence to survive dog life and human relationships to see if they can die happy – I don’t think there is a human soul through all the ages who died happy.

The pack is destroyed by fear and discomfort in their new unknown situation. They are caught between the comfort and traditional habits of mere dogs, who are directly (pets) or indirectly (stray) dependent on humans. They start by defending the comfort they have known and fighting what they have gained. It is by this first step – which is indeed a human phenomenon, fear of change – that Alexis loses the plot and the potential that this novel had.

Fifteen Dogs follows in the footsteps of Animal Farm but loses the track and then fails to rise above it. The dogs start off being ruthless, killing the dogs that claim this change and are willing to live it. The book fails to portray the premise, ‘What would happen if dogs had human intelligence?’, as these fifteen dogs die out and are viewed as ordinary dogs while they can speak and think. Imagine walking opposite a dog and it comforts you, “don’t be scared I will not bite you”. Or maybe it begs for some change, crying hunger. Only once did the book come alive when one of the canines was adopted and the owners discovered that it could talk, there a beautiful moments there that are spoiled by the couple’s reaction.

At the end, the human intelligence serves the dogs no function and purpose because they persist to remain dogs. They survive life like all other dogs and kill each other to maintain a dog’s life. The idea was great, but the writing lacked a soul, feeling and emotions. Imagine entering a house without noticing the warning sign, and suddenly seeing the dog and hearing it welcomes you: “Fear nothing, come in.” This is the story that could have been.

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Deadly words:

How many times has you mother told you these words? When did she stop? Why did she stop? A million times, before you turned sweet 16. That time when you started to wipe away your mouth after she gave you a kiss. You felt irritated. She stopped, saddened because she knew that you were no longer hers. She knew that she offended you every time she said those words.

You were fortunate but you never knew it, those words from your mother were unconditional, conditioned only by the fact that she gave birth to you. You were privileged as, in some instances, some of us never hear those words until we hear them on the streets. On the streets we love, appreciate and value them but they are at their most dangerous, distracting and destroying young lives. Even creating new lives on this path of destruction.

These words are dangerous – believe me – because mostly they come on a blank contract and after signing your name to it with the very same dangerous words –

‘I love you too.’

You have just gave away your life. Men have an unfair advantage with this blank contract. They can excuse themselves from the resulting damaged lives. These damages become a women’s lifelong burden. It is the foundation on which poverty is sown, nursed and at times loved.

We go on signing blank contracts without realising that we are damaging our lives with these beautiful yet deadly words. It is not a legal issue and there are no legal repercussions to telling your spouse that only death can separate you. But while you can have a divorce decree, the words that you have said bond you to that person, even if you remarry and make new vows.

My girlfriend came back – my first surprise of this sweet 16. It is sure going to be a super year – married to the honourable me in a marriage of hearts. Of vows only the two of us witnessed in body, hearts and soul. My first girlfriend, the intelligent, super successful feminist-at-heart, and officially a divorcee of her first marriage – recognised by Home Affairs. I could not live my life because of the enslaving vows that I made with her. She was so ignorant of these vows that we made that she just left, after realising that – in her words – “poetry doesn’t feed babies.” She left the poet to make babies. And, yes, she did make two beautiful babies, and tried to build a home in the exclusive gated suburb of Northern Johannesburg.

After 14 years of trying to build her family, it fell apart. You can give her a lifetime to write a half page of what went wrong. She will never pin it down. It is because she gave me her heart and I gave her mine, and then she got married despite my broken heart, which bled for all the 14 years. In everything they were doing, she was doing it with my bleeding heart, just as I was doing everything with her heart. I was conscious enough to know that I could not love another woman but only pretend. Yes, I have Poetic Skeletons in my cupboard as a result of this lack of heart.

Two lives broken all because of a marriage of hearts.

But she traced and tracked me and finally she found me. I did not know what to say to her. She did not know what to say either. Her tears touched me and all the anger gave way to tears. Then she recited the shortest poem I ever wrote:

    You.
    You are mine
    For a life time
    Your spirit is mine
    For eternity

Dangerous words. Deadly because they were from my heart and true. How can she remember them 22 years after I have wrote them if they had no impact? They created a lifelong covenant and, sure, maybe she had plagiarised the words to her husband. That is a secondary covenant to further destroy lives. There are many things I have gained over the 14 years since she left. You, the poem, exist in our heads – even the spouse I am with is juxtaposed by You and she can never be loved like You but she doesn’t know it. She thinks I love her. And equally true there is a man I am juxtaposed with in her life but I know it.

This is the danger of words. I love words and I play with them but this Sweet Sixteen, I have learned that they are dangerous and destructive. So I am going to take heed to what my mouth utters because I don’t know how to break covenants.


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The Art of Defusing

The Detective's SecretThere are times when an author completely loses the plot and focus of their tale, defusing the genre, and then we have a watered down novel. The fact that the novel is well received by readers, certified by the words: Number One Bestseller, aids the de-purification of the art

Lesley Thomson’s The Detective’s Secrets is such a novel. There is always a problem with starting a series in the middle as some vital information may have been disseminated or implied in the previous instalments. The author does not find necessary to divulge that information again or repeatedly as the readers who are following the series already know. This is not always a loss, as the book might necessitate one to read previous instalments even before finishing the one that they are reading – then the intention or unintentional act of leaving that information out becomes a success.

With this fact in mind, I ploughed through The Detective’s Secret carefully, but there was nothing that made me think of getting the previous instalments or even future instalments. I found an author with a readymade-to-consume market, hungry to take on whatever comes and mindless of the contents.

In The Detective’s Secrets the said detective is deceased and his daughter Stella is trying by all means to walk in his detective shoes with the help of Jack – her train driver friend – while her day job is Twenty First Century Designer housemaid on call.

The detective’s secret is the surfacing of a son, Dale Heffernan, that the wife of the detective had while they were still young. She had to give the child away. With the arrival of Dale the crime story becomes a family saga. The author flies over this family saga with nothing resolved and no payoffs to the main story.

The crime: a man jumped in front of a speeding train. Suicide. His brother doesn’t think that it was a suicide as he believes that his brother would not have committed suicide. The trained police wrote off the death as suicide. The brother then solicits the detective’s daughter to help prove that his brother was murdered. Stella is reluctant to take over the case. She is reluctant to do anything that is concerned with “walking the detective’s shoes”. She is even reluctant to open a letter addressed to the dead man whose supposed murdershe is investigating.

In the end, a cleaner and train driver solve a related 20-year-old cold case, which didn’t in fact look like a cold-blooded murder; a young boy closed the door of a tower, the victim could not come out, there was a heavy storm, and he died.

Lesley Thomson loses the plot telling us that two deaths that occurred in a particular train station – where this particular train doesn’t stop – were actually cold-blooded murders. Nowhere do Stella and Jack prove beyond reasonable doubt how the killer had the power/ability to push the victims in front of the speeding train while he was metres away from them. Murders that trained police officers and CCTV footage wrote off as suicide.

Then while Jack is in a physical confrontation with the killer – a killer with some ability to make people do as he wants – the author shuts us out of the action. When we come back the killer is dead. End of story, triple murder solved. The reader is left to believe from the narrator’s mouth that the suspected perpetrator – a man of high standing and achievements – was capable of all the acts he was accused of without any proof.

Great stories, I believe, are not told but shown, where the reader gets involved emotionally in the whole process. Whether the writer identifies the perpetrator from the beginning or the evidence trail leads us to him. Crime stories are about unravelling to the reader the intricacy of the story, about investigations and proof, the action and danger. With all this circumstantial evidence Jack, the train driver, could be charged with murder. The Detective’s Secrets fails and falls flat on its face.

Some of the latest crime thrillers show authors slowly and successfully moving this genre into soap opera territory, telling the story rather than proving beyond reasonable doubt. In that, when they fail to prove the complexity of their ideas, they can talk about it and get away with it.

It fails the tale. It fails the genre – the thrill and the suspense of crime novel, that moment when the reader is involved – they want to shout at the detective, “you are missing it”. Those moments when the reader feels that the perpetrator is getting away with it then the surprise and relief when they are caught. “Good work”, the reader wants to tell the detective.

In The Detective’s Secret, the complexity of the characters and the intricacy of the author’s ideas are great but the author falls short in unravelling this intricacy and completely fails the story.

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An Obituary of a Living Man

James Woodhouse, editor and publisher at Kwela Books, resigned. Resigned? Or rather, was fired about a month ago. I think and believe that he was fired as he never even sent a goodbye email. He deserted this ship in deep sea and vanished.

I got to know James Woodhouse by phone when he called in 2003 after he read the hard copy of my manuscript “Aborted Foetus Growing”, standing at 98 000 words in size 10 font. By his words he had just finished reading a series of dead manuscripts and he looked at the thickness and the font size of mine, shaking his head. He was not going to read it, but then he was compelled to read it. The opening pages touched him and on the morning of the third day he gave me a call. Since that day we were communicating regularly.

Room 207 should have been with us by 2004 but the then-Kwela publisher Annamarie resigned and Nelleke became publisher. There was a relationship that grew between me, James and Nelleke, and my then-girlfriend warned me about the relationship. “These people are working, you are just a job to them, nothing more.” But the relationship was personal, at least on my side.

When Nelleke trashed the book and proved my girlfriend right, James was there to give a comforting hand. There was a relation there that was not business, but it was business. Today I only have these words to comfort me and continue to travel – to borrow from Titlestad – this lonely trivial road.

James Woodhouse loved words, words moved him and made his life whole. He left some the most important things in life, that you and I would consider first and foremost, just to deal with words – words, from manuscript to publication.

And here I am in tears for losing for a word-man in my life as a living being and writer.


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It was a Dream


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Our Way Back Home

Way Back Home

Writing about the things that affect us directly like crime and state corruption – in a country as beautiful as ours, a nation as diverse as ours, as wealthy as ours and still as poor as ours – it is a thin line where the boundaries blurs. Because if one were to ask the question: what is really the meaning of corruption in this beautiful-diverse-wealthy-poor nation; is it the four hundred or so years old foreign pilfering of this beautiful country’s resources or is it the Arms Deal? Your answer will define on which side of the DSA (Democratic South Africa) you are sitting and what colour you are.

Somebody asked a question; how does one rebuild a nation that is a modern-day, twenty-first century designer mansion with a heated pool, a landscape garden, a bar, a twenty-seat cinema and a driveway, at the back is connected to an RDP house with a stolen double door ice dispenser fridge and a flatscreen TV and a shack with no running water, toilet and electricity? The simple cash answer he got was, ‘lose the RDP and the Shack.’

That was a simple way of looking at it, but the question was metaphorical and not about the designer mansion with RDP and a shack but about a nation like ours; colonialism, apartheid and democracy. How do you rebuild such a nation as ours?

In Way Back Home, Niq Mhlongo testifies that fact that we are still a long, long way from home, navigating our way in the pitch dark sea with and without any navigation tools, our vessel: a twenty-years-old, three quarters fifteenth-century vessel and one quarter twenty-first-century vessel, the DSA. And depending on which side of this vessel you are sitting, corruption has a different meaning altogether.

Kimati bears on him the future of this beautiful nation of ours, the hopes and the dreams of the poor masses, those that have accepted to be described in ‘political terms’ as the poorest of the poor. They will go wild at any political gathering. The poorest of the poor who will die for the ruling party, needlessly.

Mhlongo presents us another life of the former guerrilla solders that somehow found themselves serving for the salvation of these ‘poorest of the poor’ masses and there we see that somehow it was never about freeing the ‘poorest of the poor’ masses but it was about the personal need to survive against all odds.

The failure of the corruption to flourish in this book was a misrepresentation on part of Mhlongo. Why didn’t Mandulo Construction win the multibillion tender because Corruption as a human being is more calculating, manipulative and defensive than, say, Love as a human being which is more emotional and fragile, and almost defenseless.

These pasts and the present come into play – to correct our future? – ultimately what the individual’s reasons for being in a struggle for freedom are always superseded by the will to live and this was the reason why Lady Comrade Mkabayi died because Comrade Pilate forgot the common goals of the movement.

This is not as much a story of corruption because the corruption that is here is not the multimillion-rand corruption that we all know so well because in this life Kimithi and his company loses the multimillion-rand tender that he had celebrated before winning.

“all we ask of you is to bring your very sharp knife, not a sickle. The fat cow has finally fallen and we don’t want you to complain later when you only see its horns and skin. We are the ones who know the secret jungle where this fat cow is but we require your expertise in skinning beasts. That’s all”.

This is far away from our lived daily reality and truth because from whichever side of this DSA, corruption will remain corruption.

The real story here is the story of a soul – a soul that is lost and needs rest – and Black DSA passengers – disenfranchised people seeking to be people. The former is lorded over by Comrade Pilate and the latter by Kimithi; a position that he uses not for the purposes of the common goals of the ‘poorest of the poor’ but for personal fulfilment. Then, and now Kimithi is lording over this nation and not for the visions and dreams of the nation but for his personal gain. This is where Justice comes in and this Justice is not Justice Mogoeng and unlike him who has vested personal interest; this Justice is supernatural engrossed in Justice for Justice’s sake.

This is how Mhlongo answers and suggest that our way back home has to be navigated by the supernatural; and looking at our current state of being, one can’t help but pray for the supernatural. As Africans, we have all sung that song for decades:

         If you believe and I believe

         and we together pray

         the Holy Spirit must come down

         and Africa will be saved

Our hope in the supernatural, it has always been our last hope and we know it all too well: The ANC will rule until Jesus comes back. And He has indeed come back.

Laced in between our way back home is the greatness, the strangeness and the contradiction of modern day life, the extreme luxury against the extreme poverty, the false in search of the truth.

“Niq Mhlongo comes of age.” Yes I do agree, Way Back Home is in class above After Tears.

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