Enchanted Earth Adventures:The Vïpawatu by Liso Zenani
The Bird and the Shadow
It was an evening like many another, and Billy Benson — despite his trembling lip — had resolved not to cry. With enormous effort, he had managed to ignore the ache in his knees, arms and back quite successfully. It was the smell he couldn’t get over. A wave of nausea washed over him as he flushed yet another cigarette stub floating in aged urine and something more sinister. …
Neoliberalism is a threat to the possibility of a Socialist utopia. That is, a reinvention of politico-economic ideas and a growing revolution of global resistance against corporate capitalist organizations have been established and are making its Socialist voice known. What this research will examine is how and why in modern day, do the historical features of capitalism dominate the corporate-led markets within a neo-liberal network. Furthermore, it will provide an investigative look into the damning effects of capitalism on consumers through corporate control of the culture industry and an infiltration into…
You don’t write about losing a baby
unless you’ve lost a baby. And if you’ve
lost a baby, you know that you don’t want
to write about the thick grief, you don’t wish to think
about the trauma, to feel the hurt, or to relive
the moments any more. But mourning demands
to be felt. And healing is never linear.
These pains keep arriving in oscilating rhythms,
again and again and again and again and again…again.
This universe does not care.
That god, does not empathise either.
Otherwise, the baby would have stayed like other babies
Due in September like…
I’ve spent the last couple of days trying to make this as profound and relatable as possible but found myself feeling like nothing in what I’ve written was making sense. Reason being that I was probably lying in each thought or paragraph, to a point where I couldn’t relate to it myself. Speaking freely and openly about how my mental health has been a bittersweet symphony of both complex and simple melodies that sound harsh to the next person, but absolutely harmonious to me, has never really been a problem. …
Stogie T and Nasty C tag team to one-up keyboard warrior and twitter troll in Stogie T’s newly premiered music video for smash hit ‘DUNNO’.
Mr-Never-Miss-A-Season who concluded season 1 of his critically acclaimed #FreestyleFriday (#MakingSARapAgain x #ApplyPressure) platform at the end of June last year, shifted swifly back to the business of making music as he dropped the infectious and catchy, Dunno featuring the coolest-kid-in-Africa, Nasty C, and yesterday the music video premiered on YouTube.
Sounds of honesty, unsung by the flute.
I cannot break the spotless window that people choose to see me through.
Unspoken truths trapped in the tongues of the mute.
I am a liar, I am morally deficient, bankrupt, and corrupt; I am a dirty cheat.
For my lady does not deserve any of this.
For our love and beautiful things, I ought to gift my one with eternal and continuous bliss.
Instead, I am my Father’s son, an uncommitted somebody, a damn deadbeat.
before i met You
i was happy, content and whole.
that very day i was on my way,
to the launch of the anthology
with three of my poems in it,
and your sister’s works too.
now i have three books worth
of poetry about You, my muse.
before i met You
my life was pre-determined
on an everlasting date with destiny,
the stars were aligned,
my moon and sun shared
the same vault.
fate formed, finally confirming what my faith
had long since believed.
And too, what prayers had hoped for.
It Still Rains in The Desert
There is always space for one more but even the taxi is full,
All 16 + 3 aboard, swimming across the highway.
Mother Nature’s water has broken, the backseat tears from boy-child’s bulging bladder
Cleanse the elements of its evils. The unremitting rain
in bucket-loads of rivers. Driver atop of a wet roof,
showers baptise Nkosi’s head as the clouds’ tap leaks.
Submerged suddenly, the up-stream and down-stream foam
flowing in the streets. A parked car is washed away,
the owner from outside is drenched to the skin.
Fatherly desert, wetlands dry under the…
Intruders forced through.
Strange grasses grew,
inside the hut, my heart the mud
by the fireplace at gran’s feet,
where Kei River made ash of chicken feet.
And so, they did away,
with the heads of men,
that their guns snuffed
and these bibles unroofed
grass-tops toppled off.
Writer/Poet | This is ancestral, past-life reading; this is meditation & prayer; this is future telling. Always becoming. The undying soul in a decaying case.