kagablog

Mike Makotoko and Mak Manaka doing poems at a Likwid Tongue open mike session in Newtown, Jozi, South Africa.

Likwid Tongue is a hot and happening poetry collective, which hosts charity poetry shows and writing and theatre workshops for kids

In the Joburg Inner City.

The enduring connections of bloodlines insist that we are what our forbearers were. In Mak Manaka’s case, that connection has created a gifted artist who recently added recording artist to his list of credits. LERATO MOGOATLHE caught up with him

In Mak Manaka’s kingdom where slam poetry is delivered, the pomp and fanfare that accompanies fake monarchies and populists are not the order of the day. Manaka is, without doubt, one of South Africa’s greatest talents and sharpest minds.

The first son of artistic creators Matsemela and Nomsa Manaka, when he steps up to his poetic throne in Jozi joints, armed with a mic, words and passion, you cannot help but feel humbled by his presence. He has a potent mind and his words create pictures that are as vivid as the man who creates them.

“I see pictures in my mind before forming my words,” says Manaka about his ability to take elements of hip-hop, African oral tradition, a family history of creating and performing, and every experience that touches his life, to write some of the most exciting poems on the spoken word scene.

His father Matsemela Manaka was a playwright and visual artist, while his mother, Nomsa is as famous for her determination as she is for her consummate talent and passion as a dancer and choreographer. And out of the mouth of their 25-year-old son, whom they raised around art, creativity and black consciousness, comes words that affirm his past, present and future in the arts. He is the apple that did not fall far from the tree and is currently one of the soldiers of slam poetry doing the rounds in Joburg. They are performance artists with a committed following rather than a mass fanbase and their books, like Mak’s anthology If I could, are often self-published.

His reggae infused debut album, Word Sound Power, resounds with socio-political statements such as: “Because in these streets wounded by depression, perseverance and hard work is what it takes to survive the sharp blades of the ghetto I call home.” His poems share his private experiences, question society, celebrate life and make very hard-hitting observations, like “children of born gold, of silver spoons stand up on cosmetic podiums talking about their golden future…but a child nurtured by depression aspires to grow up and put food on the table”. But there is no anger. Just Manaka telling it as it is.

He is a writer whose pen is as mighty as he is confident. He doesn’t even hold back on the broke state of the artist, hollering, “I’m still broke, passion pays no bills sure, we’re on TV, we’re on stage, we’re everywhere, doesn’t mean we’ve got money. I’m still broke”. His words simply ring true. The album’s music matches it’s lyrical potency. The jazzy reggae beats, produced by DM Tafari, will make you want to sway your body without losing focus on Manaka’s words.

N otes legendary poet Don Mattera: “If genius can be genetically connected and if it flows from generation to generation, then Mak Manaka is the epitome of it. He comes from a dynasty of talented, creative and gifted people – Nomsa and Matsemela.”

Manaka, who has shared stages with luminaries such as Keorapetse Kgosietsile, the Last Poets, Linton Kwezi Johnson and Sarah Jones, sums up the importance of art in his life as such: “I’d die if I weren’t an artist.” Mak does not just believe that he was born to create; he also accepts that his life’s journey was determined at the source and that he needs to express it. His calling as a poet is the result of both nature and nurture. In the poem Home, also on Word Sound Power, he says: ”My father always said never put the pen down.” The pen is still his shepherd.

’If genius can be genetically connected and if it flows from generation to generation, then Mak Manaka is the epitome of it. He comes from a dynasty of talented, creative and gifted people’ – Don Mattera

Born and raised in Diepkloof, Soweto, Manaka was already a regular at the once famous Funda artists centre by the age of four, where he hung out with his parents and their fellow black consciousness and creative comrades. He started writing poetry at 14 after a tragic accident two years earlier left him wheelchair bound. His life was changed one day when a wall fell on him while he was playing with a group of friends.

One person died and others sustained injuries. Manaka broke his lower spinal cord and was told he’d be in a wheelchair for life. But determination is one of the adjectives that best describe this artist so Manaka and his mother got working on proving expectations wrong. Through her dance therapy and his resilience, Manaka got writing, performing and eventually walking again. This is the power of believing in the self.

Young Maokomela, whose name means being one whose shoulders can handle big burdens, overcame heavy burdens while still in his teens and the struggle continues.

“People pity me when they see me,” he says, “But you must see their faces after they hear me speak on stage,” he chuckles. His independence reinforces that “people are not defined by what they cannot do”. Manaka is more than a doer, he’s a creator who believes in the power of his poetry.

“Yes, my words are powerful and this is confirmed by the rain that pours every time I speak the truth,” he says, adding, “My mother says it was pouring when I was born.” And just like that, as he’s sharing his views about politricks, creativity, Africa, identity, love and inspiration, the Joburg skies opened. Perhaps a sign that Word Sound Power is the album that our conscious music catalogue needs: the riddims are excellent, the lyrics delicious food for thought and it provides the continuation of the legacy of the African artist as an engaging mouthpiece. Artist and writer, Aryan Kaganof, rightfully calls Word Sound Power “a milestone album for spoken word in South Africa”.

More than anything, the album is further testimony that Manaka, the offspring of two great artists, is correct when he says that his life is a continuation of his parents’ talents and passion. Beyond the album, he’s also working on a film version of his father’s play, Goree, hoping to extend his father’s legacy beyond its current audience of pan-African culture vultures. But ultimately, a man has to be judged by his own worth and contribution and not just by his family’s. And Manaka’s life, art and experiences prove that he is more than just his parents’ child. He is a noted artist in his own right.

pulseditor@gmail.com

this article first appeared in the city press

Maakomele Manaka , was born in Diepkloof zone 6, Soweto in 1983. The first of two boys born to artistic parents. Mak, as he is widely known is the son of the late Matsemela Manaka a well known visual artist, poet, play write and black consciousness activist . His mother, Nomsa Kupi Manaka a pioneer of African dance, an established choreographer and actress in South Africa. With a natural artistic gift as a poet and writer and a strong artistic heritage, Mak was destined to be an artist.

South African icon Don Mattera says” If genius can be genetically connected and if it flows from generation to generation, then Mak Manaka is the epitome of it. He comes from a dynasty of talented, creative and gifted people Nomsa and Matsemela”.

At the age of 5, he received a Young Artist Award at the once famous Funda Arts Center in Soweto . He started writing poetry at 14 yrs old, just two years after his near fatal accident which left him in a wheelchair for a year and a half. He started performing at the age of 15 on crutches, debuting in 1998 in Lugano, Switzerland at a tribute for his late father.

In 1999, he performed at the Windybrow Arts Theater with British poet Benjamin Zephaniah and South African poet Dr Don Mattera. In 2000 he performed for Arnold Shwarzenegger on his visit to South Africa at the Takalani Home for the mentally Handicapped school.

In 2001, he performed at Horror Café in a show called Urban Voices with Grammy award winning American poets Sarah Jones and Steve Coleman along with other young and aspiring South African poets. This was to become a milestone poetic performance for Mak – as it formally introduced him as an integral part of the local spoken word scene .

In 2002 he performed for the president of South Africa Thabo Mbeki at the SABC in a live program called ¨In conversation with the President ¨hosted by Tim Modise and during that year he compiled all his works for publication of a poetry book, “If Only”. During the subsequent years he become a sought after poet as well as headliner for various festivals and events including the annual international Urban Voices Poetry Festival which took place nationally in
SA.

Over the years on various Urban Voices stages he has performed with international and locally acclaimed poets including the likes of Mutabaruka, Linton Kwesi Johnson, Saul Williams, the Last Poets, Ursula Rucker, Lesego Rampolokeng , Keorapetse Kgositsile and various other poetic icons.

He was commissioned to perform for the former president of South Africa, Nelson Mandela at the launch of a primary school in Soweto. In 2003, he published a collection of poetry anthology titled “If Only “, which sold out after 2 years.

In 2004 Manaka performed for the Presidential Inauguration of President Thabo Mbeki at the State Theatre with gifted poets such as Don Mattera and Lebo Mashile.

Later that year, Mak toured Cuba and Jamaica with poets Don Mattera and Lebo Mashile representing South Africa in celebrating 10 years of democracy. In the same year he was nominated for The Daimler Chrysler Poet of the Year 2005 Award. This year also saw Mak performing in Holland, at the Crossing Border Festival, as well as making an appearance in Aryan Kaganof’s documentary Giant Steps.

In February 2005 he spent a month in Germany on an island called Sylt and performed in Hamburg and Berlin. Later that year he played a character also called Mak and who was facing disability issues in Soul Buddies on SABC.

In June 2006 he performed at schools around Soweto as part of the campaign for the We Remember June 16. In the same year, he performed in Germany, Berlin for the heads of state at the closing ceremony of the 2006 World Cup. In Kohln he shared the stage with talented poets, Lebo Mashile and Gcina Mhlophe, He also shared the stage with some of South Africa’s legendary artists, Johnny Clegg, Jabu Khanyile and Freshly Ground.

This year, 2008, Maakomele Manaka launches his debut cd entitled “Word Sound Power”!! an album of quality music and Conscious lyrics, which is certainly a milestone album for Spoken Word in South Africa. Produced by Melody Muzik Sound Productions, the music reflects a deep range of reggae rhythms together with hip hop and jazz. International and local musicians have contributed and collaborate on Word Sound Power!! including The Royal Kushite Philharmonic Orchestra featuring L Michell, H Izachaar, L Beckett and the album is mixed by K M Tafari

In her heart she carries a burden long forgotten by her loving and soon to be husband, she can’t bear his children. He looks at her with all the love a man can give, this man wounded in his pride walks with her as his ego, beauty has never seen such a face. She loves him so, night after night, she prays for god to spare them the shame, of living without light.
Many men live under his word, to some he is a god and to their children his hand is cast in gold,
‘Fortune favors the bold’ they say, and bold he is.

Covered in papers of debt, a quiet man in a white robe leads him to victory, his heart remains at home trying to build a happy home with no inspiration, until he walks in with strength in his eyes and power of the future in the way he holds her, so masculine, so sensual, her body longs for him, he comes inside of her and explores the world she once promised him.

A miracle she thought, ‘His blood grows in my womb’, he jumps in excitement, they both don’t’ question how it happened because the young father Terence has slow swimmers, weak in the cradle of man. Young Gloria keeps her faith in the all mighty and never loses hope, the miracle baby brewing in her belly is seen as a seed conceived by evil in eyes of the congregation and that she must abort the light she so desire, and the young priest with only a year in service will lose his collar if he doesn’t follow god’s rule. ‘So what, if we not married, he loves me’ she shouts in doubt, then storms out the church and leaves behind her man, her world.

Lost in her take off, she finds herself in bed with another man, she is confused of how she got there. The mirror reveals the secret as she stares into her mother’s eyes, it’s the priest’s daughter, her life flashes in front of the mirror and catches glimpse of how she was raised by a single parent that ran away in order to protect her.

She is a couple of months and her mother, Gloria, is on the bus out of Cape Town. She is 5 years old living in the slums of Johannesburg, her mother Gloria works as a cashier at Pick n Pay, they live with an abusive Nigerian in corrupt flats of Hillbrow.
Lost in the big City with a 1year old child, she made a lot of sacrifices for her daughter to sleep with a full stomach, the lord knows how much she had to endure.
The police crash the Nigerian’s dream, she ends up pawning clothes to pay rent, Pick n Pay is not enough, the 5 year old soon to be 6 wants to know who her father is, because the pre-school hands out an assignment on a family tree.

Trapped in her flight she finds herself stuck in translating her feelings to a man who only wants to debauch her, pay and then leave. She lives only at night trying to found out a way of surviving, the mandane street life brings tears to her eyes every time she chases after a client that’s not interested in her name, searches for solitude in a club while going down on some guy in the toilet, she looks in the mirror and catches a glimpse of how much her mother sacrifised, for her to speak English.

She is 11 years old and goes to a school near by, her mother Gloria moved them out of Hillbrow and went to Yoeville, she works at a Spar down the road, a single parent, she believes no man can give her freedom or buy her love. School fees and debts come in between the quality time a daughter needs from her mother, she works at night keeping Yoeville streets clean, she comes home around 5am, and her daughter is sleeping on the table waiting to say good night. The landlord threatens to kick them out because of two months rent, every free chance she gets, she battles banks for a student loan but she doesn’t qualify, they move out and find a cheaper place, a single room for the both of them in a commune house.

Ashamed of her face she looks away from her soul and drowns in liquor. Two men take advantage and she ends up in hospital, in less than an hour, bruised and messed up she is out on the streets selling her not so pretty thighs. Tonight she sleeps alone, business was bad but somehow she finds means to take off and so she flies, tries to sleep but hears her mother’s voice calling in the dark, switches on the lights and no one is there except for her glancing at the mirror.

She is 8 years old and very inquisitive, ‘mama, who is my father’, she looks at her with eyes covered in pain, ‘if only she knew the truth’ she thinks to herself, she tells her that her father died and that he was a police man. Every Sundays she weeps more than anyone at church, the cross has way of reminding people of pain and in her case the pain in truth stares at her from her daughter’s little eyes. She wants to tell all but can’t, fears that her daughter will want to go back to Cape Town and meet her father, she has been sleeping with guilt from the day she set foot in Johannesburg.

Father Terence finally finds her, lost his collar in doing so, ‘what type of people are these, that will strip a man of his pride, then call themselves children of god, after after so long they still cant let me be with my family.’ He thought to himself before embarking on his journey to Johannesburg and look for his family, he still loves her and his face blossoms in smiles whenever he thinks about her.

The lord works in mysterious ways, after 3 years living in the city a man can change but not Terence, he started to work at some Indian store in Fordsburg so he could survive, he rented a cottage at the back of his boss’s yard, and after 3 years of searching with luck not on his side, a man can only do one thing, move on. But just as when he is about to throw in the towel, coming from buying stock for the shop somewhere around Yoeville, he sees the face that once stole his heart across the road walking out of Spar, how can he not see her, after all she was and still is his pride and joy. He stops the car and jumps out as though he was going through a hijack, Gloria barely recognizes him from across the road as he runs towards her calling her name aloud, Terance’s face looks different with a beard, she drops the plastics on the floor in shock of what her eyes are showing her, they both hug in tears, and at this moment Gloria misses the sent of her home town down in the Cape. ‘Where have you been?, I left the church to look for you and our child? Where do you stay? Is it a boy or a girl….’ as Terence showers her in untimely questions all she can do is smile with her tears running down her beautiful and aging face like Victoria falls. Terence’s happiness is short lived when his phone rings, his boss wants to know where he is and that he is running late, Terence takes her to the house she is staying at and promises to come back tomorrow, inside the house their 8 year old daughter looks over the window and see them kiss.

Inquisitive as always, wants to know who the man outside was, Gloria fears the consequences of the joy and so she lies and tell her it was her uncle from back home.

Covered in lies as she pleasures an old man and getting him to think that she is about to touch the sky, she feels dirty inside and disgusted at the sight of wrinkles on his face and body. She closes her eyes to forget her past as the man’s breath gets heavy on her face, she turns her head and sees herself at the mirror with England on to of her, she blinks her eyes then sees another episode in her past life.

It’s the 6th of July and she is turning 16, they stay with Terence in Fordsburg. Truth still hasn’t surfaced and uncle Terence loves her like a father, she as beautiful as the sun in spring like her mother when she was her age, all the boy at school surround her and bring her gifts, life seemed to be back in order again. She couldn’t stop looking at him, she wants him but they fears to answer her daughter, she id older enough and can see the glow in her other’s face when ‘uncle’ Terence plays around with her. She goes on a field trip to Durban, Gloria and Terence do it again, slow and paced with every year that went by with out a man’ or a woman’s touch, they debauch each other every night as though it were their last. She falls pregnant again but her daughter doesn’t know, how wrong for them to keep such secretes away from the innocent virgin, life continues in a vaile over the truth.

Terence comes home early with Gloria at work, he just got fired and soon they will have to move. She comes in the house from school tired as Terence’s face, and in his drunk state he forces himself on his 16 year old daughter, he painfully breaks her virginity telling her it going to be fine, ravages her until she feels no pain, she comes on her light skinned thighs and screams in jubilation.
Gloria comes home and sees the faded light in Terence’s eyes, her daughter is sleeping, ‘but its only 7pm, she must have been tired’ Gloria thought to herself. Terence tells her the bad news, and tells her that he will find another job, they have a month to look for another place.
He continues to force himself on her, she begins to love to hate it and Gloria sees a change in her, ‘where is her daughter’, she questions herself, she’s either out or in her room isolating herself. She now calls him ‘uncle T’, at school she lost her innocence and all the boys lost interest coz she gave almost every teacher some sort of pleasure, boys call her ‘Queen Bitch’, ‘Queen B’ in short. She hates the image her mirror projects to every time ‘uncle T’ and her are done. They manage to stay for another month and Terence is always out looking a job but comes back earlier to forget his failures in between his daughter’s young thighs.

Gloria can feel the seed growing from within her, and decides to tell her the truth about who her father is. She broke down and cried, she cried the entire Nile in her room and started thinking of what he forced her to do knowing very well she is her daughter.

As Gloria is about to wake her up, she finds an empty bed with a note that reads,
‘I can’t live here anymore mama, the man you said was my uncle is now my father, and do you know what he has been doing to me? He has been forcing himself inside of me telling me if I say anything he will have kidnaped and I hate him for that, I have been trying to tell you but you were busy and never listened, thought that I am a silly girl. Well I am a beautiful girl mama, and I will survive Johannesburg, I am sorry ma. Your loving daughter, Ntombenhle’

The letter got Gloria down on her knees and screaming in tears, Terence comes in running afraid something terrible like suicide happened, he sees the letter and starts reading it, while reading, Gloria stabs him several times on the chest with her daughter’s pair of scissors, covered in blood she calls the police and sits in the living room sobbing while reading the letter again with her daughter’s photo next her.

I first met her in the streets of Zone 6 Diepkloof, Soweto. No one knew her name but I called her Poetry. She would chill with chicks dressed in gossip, the type that does the hunting and then loudly with an irritating voice confess to the whole street about, ‘how he can’t get up’, ‘he is so weak in bed’, but when her ‘can’t get it up’ man shows up, she gets all over him like a bee to a jug of honey.
Every Sunday I would chill by the corner close to the church Poetry went to, just to see the face that healed my wounds every time she glanced at me, then she would just smile after noticing that I was looking with eyes pure as virgin love. After the service, I would quickly run back to the same spot and look at her, I was young and innocent then, dressed in dirty shorts and tight shirt that exposed chubby I was.

Every school morning she sat at the back seat by the window in her mom’s car going to school, her mom and my mom became friends two days after they had moved in, so every morning they used to greet me with that ‘my car needs a fix’ type a hooter, the stupid hooter would wake me up every Saturday when I was having quality sleep.

One afternoon, all the girls and boys in my hood including Poetry got together and played a game of ‘Truth or Dare’ out side some skinny girl’s house who kissed ass just to be seen around girls who were supposedly cool so we can make our move but still, no one even gave her a glance yet alone a look, shame poor girl didn’t even know it, always wanted to be first. As night slowly came to the game it was now Poetry’s turn, “truth or dare”, my younger sister Mpho questions her in anticipation of a ‘dare’ answer, and so Poetry fulfilled her expectations and answered “dare”, ‘I dare you to give my brother a soapy kiss, mouth open’. I was only ten when I experienced a tongue on mine, at first the idea disgusted me, her tongue on mine bull crap, but when Poetry gave that kiss I felt an internal ecstasy no words can describe, after all It was my first kiss. When we got home my big mouthed sister told both my parents about what had had happened and my pops is a strict conservative Christian, so what had had happened earlier was seen as an act of defiance to him, so they repeatedly whipped me while shouting, ‘You like girls ha, You think you older enough to kiss girls now ne? And next thing you’ll be talking about children’. As he continuously lashed my behind with a leather belt, I grew close to pain.

I was the only boy in the house, so that made me the only example to my sister Mpho, anything bad that would happen in the house, like, broken chairs, cracked glass or scratched CD’s was pinned on my head, you can imagine what would happen.

After that kiss, Poetry and I became close friends but not in front of our parents coz my mother told her mother what happened but Poetry’s mom was cool and always smiled at me every time she saw us together. Poetry and I grew close to each other as time grew with us.
I went to a different high school far from home coz father thought he was smart, separating Poetry and I, but what he didn’t know was that Poetry went to a school 4 to 6 blocks away from mine, so we saw each other everyday after school by the bus station in town, sometimes her mother would pick her up when it rained bad and she find me there standing with her, she would kindly greet me with a mother’s smile then offer me a lift but the thought of my father’s hard palm across my face concealed my actions, no ways I was now 16 and in high school, no more of those lashes, so normally I would decline the offer.

My father became a stranger to me as I grew older, anything I wanted I would ask my mother, and my sister became more ‘n more spoiled but she had my back and I had hers coz after the day she had me whipped she some how feels responsible for how I turned out to be. In my parents eyes, Mpho was an angel, and when she was young my father washed her brain with lies forgive me for not believing in fairytales, but why bring a child in polluted world and still pollute her mind with how she came to be, we didn’t have Discovery Channel coz then she would have known that, an angel didn°Øt come to the house carrying a baby wrapped in white clothe saying ‘here’s your gift’, I mean who in their right minds believes that? My sister did and I think she still does, even after she got into a fight with some girl out on the street, this girl told Mpho the truth and she just couldn’t handle it, so she flipped the script and threw a fit, cat fight in a middle of the street, next minute all I hear is “I am going to kill you bitch” raw haircuts and street designed skirts. I had to step in and dislocate the fight take her home to cool off, Poetry was there and she was mad impressed. Father sat down with Mpho and broke it down, “But you still my angel, daddy’s little angel” father plead her mercy.

The girl who etched her face in my dreams and left a mark untraced in my heart, was sitting next to me in the so called park talking about our vivid future, every body who saw us thought we were going out, but we were best friends or so I thought.

December times were the worst times of my life, coz every holiday my name was Toby. Father and I use to wake up almost every morning and do our long-day shores, Mother and Mpho would polish the floor with Cobra that still left it looking dry and when they were done, Mpho would always take a long bath and come out looking like “Miss Universe” meanwhile mother kept on sending me back and forth to the stores, how I hated that, she did it every day and at times it seemed like she was enjoying it but anyway, I loved her. Father sat on his normal old brown chair in front of the TV covered with a face of authority, slowly reading the news and turning a page with one eye and the other on me out side, fearsome man he was, build like a gladiator, but he had issues which at times blinded his vision of things.

After looking and smelling like a swine, I would quickly wash up and dress to kill for my Poem. Just as when the sun was about to rest, we who live with the night were alive and walking with only one thing in mind, our loved ones.

I would chill out side her home with her mother bringing us biscuits and Coke-Cola, and would talk the night to sleep. We spoke about everything, from the Nigerians in Hillbrow

to the terrorists in Cape Town, but what used to puzzle me was that every time touched the topic of fatherhood, she would remind me of something I had to do like ‘when am I cutting my hair’.
When it was getting late and darkness was presenting itself on the monkey’s plate, she would walk me closer to home. We would always stand for 30minutes talking, laughing and flirting with a couple of chuckles, then give each other hugs, On the night of December 16 1999 was a moment printed in my memory in Cleopatra’s gold, I remember it like was yesterday. We had just came from a jazz concert by the lake with a couple of friends, we both got off first and when we reached our destination, closer to her home, outside parked an unusual car, a black Ford Cortina, and suddenly something in her changed but I didn’t question it, this night was like the Cape’s four seasons in one day, I was so happy, excited to be in her arms yet saddened the same time. We didn’t even talk, she held me as if she was leaving for England the day after, I felt her heart pounding on my chest, thought of asking her what’s wrong but her tongue signaled a different feeling, her fingers had a life of its own with every grip I was alive.

Emotionally we massaged each other’s tongues, and her fragile fingers caressing my skin, eased down the pain I was going to feel when I get home, after leaving with a girl and no approval. Then in the mist of ecstasy she whispered, “I love you” then walked away and grew smaller by the distance, my Queen, my light, my everything and I was only 19 years old, imagine me now. That night I couldn’t sleep, the black Ford outside her house kept my head running, “who’s car was that?” “Poetry is just like my grand ma, so secretive”, I had a funny anxious feeling when she looked back at me with half a smile. I couldn’t wait for tomorrow’s sun to show me her face, her laughter, her voice, her sent.

I woke up the next morning feeling like a lotto winner with a sparkling smile and the sun on my face, and for the first time as far as can recall, that morning nobody woke me up. I quickly stole the house phone and tried calling Poetry but her phone was engaged, took a bath after breakfast, though with all the happiness something wasn’t right my mother was cool and father never ordered me to take out the trash, mhmm. Internal joy surrounded my whole being, “must see Poetry”, “Poetry, Poetry where art thou Poetry?” then just as I was about to walk out the dungeon and into the wonderful arms of Poem, mother calls me back in, “what now, eeish.” Go back in slower than a turtle and as I get inside mother sits me down and starts crying, “what’s going on?”, then father decide to send me to the shops and buy bread, bread? Mpho could’ve done that, what’s going? So anyway I ran out, and went passed her house just to catch a glimpse of her face damn, man I was in love, when I got there, there were cars parked outside her house, and that old black Ford was there too, but parked inside the yard, I heard a group of people singing gospel tunes, “this is odd, it wasn’t even Sunday or Thursday”, so I quickly ran to the shops and when I get there, the store guy Thabo, whom I barely, hardly talks to me, now he wants to know “if I am fine”, “how’s my day so far?” this dude kept asking me out-of-the way question, “sho man I am fine, see later”. Hew! To Poetry, something’s not right. On my way there, my heart pounds faster after reading Sowetan’s shocking headline, “Father kills wife and daughter”.
And then it made sense why mother was crying, the gospel choir and Thabo at the shop, when I got outside of Poetry’s house my heart gave out, I broke down and cried a river then my sister came and sat down next to me and cried with me but she was the stronger one, she wept coz I was, she felt my pain, after all I had my first kiss with Poetry through her.

When the news hit my community it caused a turmoil coz the killer, Poetry’s father was not arrested, he survived suicide and was in Baragwanath Hospital, so the community wanted to go finish him off, you might have read about or seen it in the news, the Diepkloof police station had to send couple of pigs to guard the weakling.

From what I had gathered later on was that, Poetry’s mother was about to divorce her abusive and alcoholic husband, they separated in 1992 a year before Poetry and her mom moved in. They moved away from him but he would keep on showing up late at night in his black Ford, and sometimes she called the police on him to arrest him, but when did the police actually do some work.
And when the divorce papers came to her father’s door step in some dump of a house in Mapetla, he couldn’t take it and so he took my poem and spilled her blood over papers that she had nothing to do with, some say I am biter but she was my everything and I was not there to shield her. The morning of December 17 1999 was a morning I first tasted anger, pain and the loss of a loved-one, I guess I became a man before 21.