kagablog

By Mphutlane wa Bofelo

The political and economic meltdown in Zimbabwe is traceable to the hold on the country’s policy alternatives and developmental possibilities by the restraints of the Lancaster House concessions and the constraints of the Structural Adjustment Programmes. Robert Mugabe and his ZANU (PF) implemented these programmes to the letter from 1981 up to 2000. Mugabe and ZANU’s reward was the blindness, silence and tacit collusion of the western powers in the genocidal attack on the people of Matabeleland in what is called the Gukurahundi. Despite the fact that Mugabe and Zanu PF continued with the culture of violent clampdown on political dissidence and repression of media freedom and the freedom of association and assembly, the custodians of democracy remained prepared to portray Mugabe as an astute statesman and scrupulous ruler. For as long as he trod the path of the Washington Consensus and cracked his whip against labour and ensured that there was no room for leftists to raise their heads in Zimbabwe, Mugabe could reign on opposition to his rule by any means at his disposal.

Throughout the 1990’s, the International Monetary Fund(IMF) and the World Bank and the G8 gave a standing ovation to the social policy path and political economy trajectory pursued by Zimbabwe, South Africa, Uganda and Ethiopia. As late as 2001 political science textbooks at tertiary institutions celebrated Mugabe of Zimbabwe, Mandela of South Africa, Museveni of Uganda, and Zenawi of Ethiopia as the crème de la crème of African leaders, and hailed them as former guerillas who had woken up to the realism of running a country. In 2001 popular disenchantment with the failure to meet liberation expectations and pressure from the war veterans forced the land reform project on the agenda of Mugabe and Zanu PF. Mugabe and Zanu PF then failed dismally to come up with a systematically designed land reform project, with clear targets, performance indicators and monitoring and impact assessment mechanisms. Instead of genuine land reform aimed at sustainable development of communities, they opted for a mixture of anarchist, populist, propagandistic theatrics and bureaucratic centralism, elite’ self-enrichment, and the politics of cronyism and patronage aimed at using the land reform project to prop up the power of the establishment.

Suddenly western governments, with the aid of the media and our ‘fuckademics’ started to shift the focus away from the suffering landless, jobless and poor multitudes of Zimbabwe - who continue to live in utter poverty and squalor - to the fate of white farmers. Both the Western governments and the White farmers in Zimbabwe never raised even a murmur of protest against the rule of Mugabe for as long as their bread remained buttered. All of a sudden, everybody forgot that Mugabe built his repressive machinery under the watchful eyes of the super powers and the so-called multilateral institutions. Nobody cared to remember the role played by the restraints of Lancaster House agreement on a legal-constitutional and peaceful land reform process in Zimbabwe and the ravages of the market forces unleashed by the Structural Adjustment Programmes on the people, economy and environment of Zimbabwe.

Whenever the issue of the war crimes against Mugabe is raised, often the focus is not the crime of the Gukurahundi or the genocidal impoverishment of the people through handing them over to the brutality of the market forces for a decade of subservience to the Washington Consensus. The focus is rather the “crime” of taking land from white farmers. When the Gukurahundi is mentioned no one speaks about the need to also charge Mugabe’s main backers throughout this period - the super powers and the Washington institutions - IMF and World Bank. This is not the first time that America and the West, bankrolled and oversaw a one party dictatorship or military rule for decades only to ditch the regime when it is no longer serving their interests. But not after dusting off blood from their hands and clothes, and presenting themselves as the moral voice, urging for war crimes against the very regime that they baby-seated, reared and mentored. From Mobuto Seso Seko, Saddam Hussain, Charles Taylor and the Taliban to Uncle Bob—the list of rulers utilized and dumped like used condoms by Uncle Sam and his brethren is endless. It is anybody’s guess what trajectory Morgan Tsvangirai and his Movement for Democratic Change is most likely to tread if they ascend power.

Writing for live camera-action

Lenses zoomed on the face

Sound-effect on the breath and the silence

Slow-motion hands caressing the goatee

Premeditated pensive poise

Spotlight on every speck of motion

Inquests into the gaze of the eyes

Gropes for cues into the poet’s thought

As if a poem is a psychometric window

Into the poet’s state of the mind

But poetry flows from the heart

And no microscopic measure

Shall dare to approximate

The depth and state of the heart

1

Like fleas cherish a sluggish

Surreptitious ruin of their habitat

Anger relishes a slothful

Demolition of the heart that harbors it

2

Just as ants wage a silent

War of slow destruction

To trounce colossal mountains

Vengeance leisurely chews

The chest that gives it homes

3

The rapturous whispers of the ego

Delude the flattered self that

The other is the victim

Of vitriolic outburst & retributive violence

Whilst iblis disguised as anger

Joyously throttle the human from within

Vacate the terrestrial zone

Move out of yourself

Close your eyes from the flattery of the ego

Recline, loll on the carpet

Let it lull you away from the self

Launch into the outlook of the world

Through the view of the other person

See how ordinary your fears and loves are

And realize how universal your need

For dignity and respect and your want

For love and understanding are

The Arts and Culture Desk of SOPA is planning a “Spoken Word against Racism, Xenophobia & Related Descrimination” in Alexandra. Artist who wish to perform at the event can contact Thobeka on 0826840072, Rufus on 0727972829,Mphutlane 0738698726.

You may say it is an illusive

Caressing of bruised ego

The wealthy voice of the indigent

Shouting tongue-in-cheek on the wall:

“Rich people are so poor

The only thing they have is money”

For those who hear with the heart

The gospel on the wall is clear

Poor people are so rich

They can read the poverty in riches

The failure to comprehend

The invaluable value

Of things not containable

By both poverty and richness:

The expansiveness of a heart

Charged with undying love

The jubilee of a womb loaded with life

The unrestrained merry-making

Of villagers welcoming rain

The supple dances of ghetto kids

Low on cash but high on life

June’’s baby died because

Infant meat wets the appetite

Of granny the wizard

Its mother is actually not dead

The old witch never touches a broom

But her house and yard are sparkling clean

At the unholy hours of the night

You can hear her furniture dancing

A grass-cutter moaning on her lawn

June’’s husband was failed by his heart

Seeing his wife and child die

At the hands of his own mother

Punctured him to pint-size

As for his diminutive

Former voluminous mistress

She’s dying from food poisoning

Everybody knows she started spewing blood

After eating food at June’s husband’s funeral

Her celebrity husband has lost weight

Due to being over stressed

By too many performances

And the invasion on his life

By the peeping Toms & prying cameras

The budget allocated to the arts centre is R2 million
All staff is voluntary, the director is a casual
Community groups and private bodies pay for functions
The big corporates throw their bit
The audit statement is incomplete
The accountant died in the Kenya plane crash
What’’s certain is that nothing is left for this financial year
The deficit is R 200 000
Sixty thousands was spent on special occasions
Tenders went to the director’’s spouse
The cousin was a shareholder
The mayor was a silent partner
The girl-friend a consultant…..
Forget about sexually transmitted diseases
The limelight is on sexually transmitted economic empowerment
Bags falling from owners into skillful hands guarantee no loot
Self-made blindness & bowl-hands attract few coins from good Samaritans
Pick-pocketing & begging is so out of trend
Creative-fundraising is the current
When one cannot afford not to hope that oneday
He or she will be at the top & all worries will be gone
There is no moment to care about the missing link in the pyramid scheme
With the nation so in need of heroes
The cheer crowd ready for hire
The media starving for scoops
The possibility of a corruption trial
Presents an opportune moment
To be a star of the moment
Newsmaker of the year
There is no room for losers here
The cost of being a hero is zero
If your trade denies you the chamzer award
You can try your luck in the controversy bid
Anyway better be a moegoe of the decade
Rather than come out with nothing in the celebrity race
You do not need to be grandiloquent
There are many ways to explain your actions
If you are a kwaito-star turned TV personality-cum UN ambassador
The paparazzi are jealous of you for eclipsing
The limelight from them in their own territory
If you are a politician obviously
There is some political conspiracy
Behind your dirty linen in public
If you are a soccer star
Everybody knows the girl
Threw herself on you
You sincerely thought
Young women should be
The only ones concerned about
Putting a condom & worrying
About STDs and pregnancy
If you are a soapie star
And know something about the bible
It is so damn easy
Just ask for forgiveness
Everybody knows celebrities are people too
They too can forget the condom
And forget how many kids they have
From how many women
If you are a famous deejay
The gods are forever smiling on you
You do not need to rent a crowd
There is a sufficient crowd of groupies
Ready to replace jiving with toi-toing
Your gift of words will
Come very handy to you
In case you have to put a spin
On the meaning of what you said
In threatening state witnesses
In any case if you are found guilty
You will be in the good company
Of patriots whose only crime was
Helping comrades in need
Brilliant administrators behind the dock
Only because of the ignorance
Of apartheid-era judges who know
Nothing about Affirmative Accounting
And all the new terms that are part of progressive lexicon
Me and my buddies have a word for these mamparas
I mean all the bloody whiners

“Take a hike!”

Finish and klaar!

she writes her anxiety

with needle on wool

lets embroidery sing

blues no composer

can give lyrical tapestry to

if one could live wishes

the story would exit her heart

to live forever on pieces of cloths

decors eternally hanging on boardrooms

dining lounges & bedroom suites

no longer her poor belonging

but stately property of proud collectors

yet the children in the streets

tell her son stories whispered

in households on evening tables

they say grandpa is also daddy

& grandma chose marital bliss

above the health of

her daughter’s mind

& the wellbeing of her soul

the verdict is her(e)

knitting is a neurotic

compulsive dealing with repressed

memories of daddy coming from behind

“mama, is it true grandpa was a monster?

the things he did to you, ma

is he in hell, ma?

and grandma,

was she chased from heaven, ma?”

he whistles & hums his burdens he welcomes the anguish

into haunting tunes of the people into his heart

surrenders his heart to all ears weaves their murmurs and groans

his grief sinks in people’s minds into exhilarating sounds

a tapestry of the blues buried

within everybody’ chests

scribes roll reams of paper

write PhD dissertations

on psycho-metaphysical

dimensions and philosophical

underpinnings of his tunes

the ethnographer receives cum laude marks

to graduate as an expert

in the phonetics and intricacities

of the music of African language

& a doctor in what-what

on the meaning and origins

of Blues

the psychiatry of the Spirituals

& the borderline between Jazz & Soul

& the whys and whatevers of Rhythm and Poetry

his palms caressing

an empty paraffin vessel

he breathes his spirit

in a forsaken hosepipe

empties his lungs

in a lonely bamboo cane

feeds a deserted beer-bottle

with his soul & passerby’s

with his song-tales- their stories

the musicologist drowns himself

in the acoustics and poetics

of his own voice & swims in the (sem)antics

in an effort to put a tag

on the rhythms and blues

in the jazzy dance of soulful

lips wailing the pounding rap

of rain drops on rooftops of a mud-hut

Alexandra is up in flames

Black flesh is the fuel

Voices celebrating

The cheapness of black life

Belt out not the notorious die stem

But the now in\famous mshini wam

Hands baying for Kaffir blood

Raise not the swastika & the fier kleur

But the clenched fist & the rainbow flag

This time the K word is not

An Africanized version

Of the Arabic heathen

But our own African

Fervent articulation

Of negrophobia

A raging hatred

Of any reminder

Of how Black our continent is

Not to mention our deliberate choice

To forget to remember

How our ancestors hailed

From the North and the Centre of Africa

And found the people among people

Making rocks to speak the language of art

It was only yesterday

When the whole world

The greens and the reds and the pink

All shades of convictions and ethics

In a literal and symbolic exposition

Of the existence of three worlds in one nation

And the yawning chasm in the quality of life

Of the poors and the rich in this great country

Distinguished for its penchant for mix-masala

Marched to opulent Sandton

Via muddy terraces & falling shacks

Academic lenses, activist eyes

Tourist cameras and researchers videos

Zooming on Alex children

Licking dry fingers for lollipop

& river humming a distressed

Elegy to people who

Fear summer for torrents

Of rain filtering in

Like water through a sieve

And cringe at the approach

Of the winter that adds coldness to the long list

Of the natural and nurtured

Hostilities against the poorest of the poor

But now the poors of Alex

Bay for the blood of the poors of Zimbabwe\ Nigeria\ Congo \ Somalia

Little urchins are verbal assassins

The target of their obnoxious vitriol is not the system

As we tremble in worship of the establishment

That forever quarantines us on the periphery

And shudder to confront the demons within us

We scrape our mother’s wombs for new soft targets

To turn our rage against our newly found national scapegoat …….THE KWERERE!

you need not explain your silence

my ears discern the music

of your quietness as good

as your looks caresses

me beyond delight

i hear a love declaration

behind your heaving breathing

& quivering mumbling

the same way you were

able to read my lips

as a tongue-tied me

fumbled and wrestled with language

in a fervent plea

for the tongue to transport

deep into your bosom

a telegraph from my heart

how could i not feel

the welcome of your hands

the embrace of your compassion

& now your quiet

loudly beautiful face

you dying when

i am not there

explains your life

when we are together

and how i die without you

this love would not be

if you were to live

in my absence

for you would die

in my presence

as for me my love

i have learnt in a special way

it is in dying in your absence

that your omnipresence in my life

manifests itself copiously

this i now know for true

to live life to the full

i have to empty

my heart of too much

of me and refill it

with your everlasting presence

without a blink i declare

the love(r) in me

comes full circle

when i leave

myself behind

& enter you

as nothing but a part

returning to the whole

as the invincible tranquility

of the ocean prevails

over the rage of storms

your beauty remains awake

in the deepest of sleep

your awakened face releases

onto the world a smile

that speaks of hopeful

dreams triumphant

above haunting nightmares

every morning i find

you more accomplished

than the day before

every night by your presence

is a blissful experience

in my world there are

no worries over load-shedding

i just cannot afford to wake up

from the clutch of your thighs

into the world of failed power

& limping reality

i was going to go

on a long-winded lecture

on the historicity & cultural specificity

of dance as a languageform

involved with the organization

of rhythm and aesthetics…

i was going to go

all pedantic and scholastic

mention a jay pather here

quote a ivaldo bertazza there

and now and again

without acknowledgement

paraphrase a danilo santos de Miranda

& go to town on utilizing

biochemics and the knowledge

of locomotion systems and physiotherapy

to gain a comprehensive grasp of anatomy….

i was going to go all bookish

and wax philosophical

not necessarily original

on bodylanguage as

a social & cultural construct…

i was going to pretend

i am a choreographer amongst all

& tell you how the physical dimension

heightens a peoples ability

to relate to the worlds…

but how could i sermonize to you

about the potential of dance

to create a collective harmony

as well as bodily express

the collective voice of a people seeking

for a sense of place in a given space

when with my ears i heard

the audience release

a volcano of claps

by way of ovation

saying the nation sees

its movement out

of the narrow valley of despair

into the vast oasis of hope

in the crazy motion of your tiny feet

soldiering your burdened body

beyond yesterday’s ugly scars

above the fresh wounds

of a hobbling today

into the brave world

of the rolling up of sleeves

muddling in the mud

sticking noses in debris

soiling hands with bits & pieces

of derelict and dumped bricks

to build out of the boldness of dreams

a future pregnant with hopes

Your can move on my dear

No need to look behind

All you will see is your shadow

Do not stress your ears sweetheart

The quietness you hear is for real

Do not listen to your whims darling

There is no whistle calling you back

There are no footsteps behind you

The voice in your ears is not mine

That melody you hear is the hiss of the grass

Maybe it is echoes of the rhymes

I once weaved especially for your ears

You can dance to their beat if you want

A smooth groove and a rhythmic shuffle is no harm

As long as you know these are songs from the past

I am sure you wish I had a mellow baritone

To serenade you all night long

With a sonorous melody

Saying if you can not lie on me

To lie to me will suffice

But no matter how watery

Or lemon-dry they might be

I find nothing seductive

In lips too loose that they utter love for just

Unlike Barry White I believe

You can only tell a lie if you live a lie

& most certainly I profess

Only no love in the self and belief in nothing

Nurtures the life of lying

I am sure you still cannot believe

I was able to see your heart was inside his bosom

While your hands toyed with my prick

You may want to know

How my ears could discern

Your cry for him to come inside you

Behind that serenading hum

Urging me to come like a thunder

It was that sweeter than always

Melody of your tone

Your voice like the bard’s

Talking to a person’s heart

Actually speaking the song

Of every lover to any beloved

I will tell you how I came to know

Your mind caressed someone else

Whenever your fingers

Played piano on my body

You were given away

By that gaze as deceptively seductive

As the moon looking like

It is smiling with its looker

While in reality it is

Glowing for everybody

icebound Projects and Ditiro Productions are calling for submissions of poems, essays, reviews, stories and artworks for a new literary journal called Mo(v)ements.

Mo(ve)ments is an annual journal of prose, poetry and visual arts focused on writers and artists from Free State and Kwazulu-Natal writing in English, Sesotho, Isizulu, Isixhosa, Afrikaans, Setswana, Sepedi and Isiswati.

MISSION
To create a platform for the exposure of budding and established artists in Free State and KZN and to promote greater interaction between writers, artists and readers from these two provinces, and to expose their works to the rest of the country.

AIMS
[1] Provide a platform for writers and artists to reach a wider audience and readership.

[2] Promote the culture of reading and writing

[3] Encourage writers to write in all South African languages

[4] Increase the body of literature written in these languages

[5] Appreciation of the beauty of the languages and literature.

EDITORIAL & SUBMSSION POLICY

Copyright in the works submitted shall belong to the writers and artists themselves. All contributors shall receive two free copies of the issue of Mo(v)ements in which their works appear. Contributors should include a self-addressed and stamped envelope (SASE). It is recommended that submitted works be typed but hand-written works shall be accepted provided they are readable. Works by writers and artists from Free State and Kwazulu-Natal shall be given first priority, as there are no other literary magazines in these provinces.

Works should be e-mailed to iceboundpsyche@yahoo.com or ditiroproductions@yahoo.com
or send by post: Ditiro Productions PO BOX 48002 Qualbert 4078

I put a tie on my khaki suit, take off my jr hat, ponder for a little while, put it on again, wear my HIV\AIDS ribbon, loudly singing the English , Isizulu and Sesotho parts of the national anthem, and saying aloud the greetings in these languages to see how far I’ve gone with working on my accent. For the first time after forty years of its existence, Orange Vaal Kultuur Fees will be open to all cultures and races and I am the master of ceremonies (these days it is called program director). Mine is a task insurmountable. The folks understand the realities that it is mission impossible to sell the orange that is an all white cultural festival to the emergent rainbow nation that has become a part of the global village. They realize that a multiracial festival will be more sellable and that we need few black faces to be able to court corporate and government funding. Yet I still need to assuage their fears that our culture is about to be thrown in the dumping grounds of history. On the other hand I need to make the whole country believe that ours is not token transformation. My own personal image is at stake here. I have to assure the guys that I’m still worth the salt and at the same time show the government and the international community that the Orange Vaal Kultuur Gemeenskaap -the name change debate is still coming- is committed to transformation. I definitely need to master the art of uttering statements with a multiplicity of meanings and saying things that mean different things to different people depending on where they stand and what blinkers they wear.

I really have to dress up for the occasion and be everything to everybody. Thus far I’ve been equal to the task. The khaki is for the folk, the hat is for the crown-as you know we are back in the commonwealth and the sun shall never set on the British empire- the tie is for civility, the ribbon is a political statement, the singing of the official national anthem is as right a thing to do as paying your television license and the multi-lingual greeting is as politically correct as they come. I can handle situations like this because I am a practical man for whom convenience is the only dogma and existential conditions the supreme reality in life. For me the world is my place as long as I am able to be the right person for the right moment and assume the correct role at the right place in time. I have seen and done it all and like a cockroach I have survived earthquakes and all sorts of storms. In South West Africa I was Mr Government, in Angola I was a hired gun, in Mozambique I supplied the guns, at Quito Cunavale I was the fuel, in Kwazulu-Natal I fuelled the fire; in Boipatong I provided the fuel. Tonight I am the program director. My goal is reconciliation; my message is to forgive and forget the skulls in the closet to bury the past and its woes to celebrate the present and its scandals to be ready to feed on the carcass tomorrow. For me the man of all times and citizen of the global village there are no fixed roles and rigid rules but the universal law of convenience and gain, or profit as it is called today. I ask one and only one question-what is in it for me? The choice to be a trouble-maker or trouble-shooter depends on my gain\ profit \ convenience \ comfort\ security. I have been a dove in times of peace and a hawk in times of war and I have been a hawk in peace times and a dove in war times. What is convenient and profitable for me at a particular point in time and place informs my decision to choose whether I should make peace or war.

Today I am in my jeans and takkies and clad in one of the Dashikis I bought in the DRC the other day. I have made sure that I choose the one with the gold and black colors, and fit it with a green polo-neck jersey. My appearance must make a statement, even before I open my loud mouth to make a presentation to the local government on why my Afrique Events Company should be awarded the tender to host the official Ten Years of Democracy Celebrations. Everyone knows I am the most appropriate guy for the job. I provide all the freebies at the main rallies and events of every important political party, community organization and professional body known in this province, print free T-shirts for them, and generously contribute to the election drives of all the major political parties- off course, anonymously. I know the rule of this business my man. Flexibility, versatility, ambiguity and anonymity are the triumph cards. Fixed identities and grand master plans do not work here. I know this game like the palm of my hand because I’ve been through rainstorms, thunder and dust and bullets storms and all sorts of cataclysmic explosions as I traversed desserts, plains and mountainous areas in line of duty. In Biafra I was underground, in New York I am undercover, in Zaire I worked with the government, in Congo Brazzaville I was with the rebels, in the Democratic Republic of Congo I was in all sides, in Rwanda I was behind the scenes, in Johannesburg I am a poet, in Paris I am a pimp, in Kabul I am in the oil industry, in Somalia I was a peace-broker, in Baghdad I am a constructor and the future for me is as clear as clouds, in Zimbabwe I was in transit, in Equatorial Guinea I was into mining, and tommorrow I am going to Lebanon in transit to Israel as a road map consultant.

29 February

Creative Writing and Slam Poetry Workshop

2pm at Zamdela Arts and Culture Center (Participation is by confirmation and is limited to 40 participants)

1 March

Launch of “The Heart’s Interpreter” by Mphutlane wa Bofelo and performances by Kush Khoza, Botsotso Jesters, Icebound and Farouk Asvat.

Keynote speech by Allan Kolski Horwitz

(Attendance is limited to workshop participants and invited guests)

2 March

Zamdela Slamjam and open mic

2pm at Zamdela Arts and Culture Center9Attendance is free)

Contact: Mamiki (Zamdela Arts and Culture Center) 0783284123

Mphutlane (Ditiro Productions) 0738698726

Icebound (Icebound Projects) 0820429905

BOOK: BELLA

AUTHOR: Isabella Motadinyane

PUBLISHER: Botsotso Publishing

REVIEWER: Mphutlane wa Bofelo

Beginning with the title, Bella is a poetry book repudiates fixed notions of a sense of presence, self and identity and narrows the boundary between being and non-being, past and present and myth and reality. Though Bella is short for Isabella this book is not self-titled in the traditional sense of an artist naming his\her work after himself\herself and\or placing himself\herself at the center of his\her work. The choice of this the title is more in the spirit of celebrating the name and personality of Isabella Motadinyane and of remembering and re-membering her life and times (and works) rather than a suggestion that the focus of the poems is Isabella Motadinyane. It is true that Isabella passed away in 2006 without having written\published a book. Yet- since Bella consists of her works and is named after her- it is also true that Isabella Motadinyane has written a book and has given it her name. The dismantling of the chasm between now and then, and between the concrete and the abstract runs like a thread in Bella.

The dialogue with the self and the reader is disguised in the form of monologues that contains reminiscent, reflective descriptions of emotions evoked by particular sights and scenes, faces and places, characters, voices and utterances. On the surface it appears as if the object of most of the poems is other characters or certain places but on close scrutiny it turns out that in many instances one gains more insight on the narrator\poet. In actual fact the poet is finding and expressing herself in her interaction with people and in the enunciation of how others view her. Even where the personal voice of pain and anguish is expressed as in “My Bruised Soul”, it is the reaction and utterances of others that movingly captures the poet’s fate:

” my night shrieks \ shocks my neighbors\ “this is weird\ is she eaten up by rooi mure?”\ they cry\ feeling my pain\ my tears\ pulling a sinking boat\ created me pains”

Many of the poems in this collection explore the theme of the intricacy of identity and the fluidity of a sense of self by narrowing the line of demarcation between the real and imagined, the perceptual and the factual, and the abstract and the concrete. Abstract things like shadows, the voice and speech are represented as physical and concrete terms.

“moving shadows thicken on walls\ voices become fluffy \ to listening ears\i stitched my speech \ to set my back free”

The survival of beauty\holiness \positivity in the midst of a hopeless situation where there are ample possibilities of descent into ugliness, evil, hopelessness and pessimism is symbolized by an angel hanging from a thread. The self is portrayed as not so obvious and sure but in a very blurred way whereby the known and unknown, certain and uncertain both informs one’s self-construct and self-consciousness.

“I took a few strides in the mirror\ there I met a familiar stranger in the mirror” There is a sense of uncertainty as to what constitutes the self: “I do not remember the self anymore \ only voices calling after me.”

Ironically a strong sense of presence and self is registered in the places the poet\persona has been to long after s\he’s left:

” On a full moon\ under moving shadows\ I left my mark on the floor”.

The “I” in the poems articulates a self-reflective, soul searching personal voice: “my bruised soul \ color my face pale\ identity gradually fading\ trying to stretch \ wrinkle lines straight”, as well as a conversational voice, directed towards both an imaginary audience and a fictional character (or real person): ”You pulled an elastic \ down my legs\ I looked into your eyes.” Relationships and interaction with the other contributes to the growth of as sense of awareness and :” With the reflections of the moon on your face \ tickling pores of awareness in me \ I spread my sea wings apart\ for you to come in.”

However a handful poems have the narrative voice that provides commentary on the ills and problems bedeviling society through descriptions of the tragic conditions of victim: ”she walked a painful lane home \ wiping tears of change\ from her soiled body\but told one about those fakes\ now her poison intake \lays her bones \ perspires with naked truth” To highlight the stigma and silence surrounding the HIV\AIDS the poet does not mention the disease throughout the poet but resort to an English translation of the euphemistic street jargon used to refer to the disease: “ Reading her medical record\ as three little words\ holding back her years” ( In street lingo HIV is often referred to as ‘Amaghama amathatho’, meaning three letters.) This beautiful collection of poems -whose only weakness for me is the misspellings and orthographic errors in some of the Sesotho\Setswana poems- does justice to the memory and legacy of this great poet.

Book: The Heart’s Interpreter
Author: Mphutlane wa Bofelo
Publisher: Mphutlane wa Bofelo
Reviewer: Zenoyise Madikwa

I will never again judge a book by its cover. I dismissed Mphutlane wa Bofelo’s book, The Heart’s Interpreter, as not deserving my attention. I dumped it in my desk drawer for months.

It was my sister who dug it out. But after reading the first poem, I was hooked. Having since read the book from cover to cover, I now think Bofelo is possibly one of the most talented poets I know.

His thoughts are elegantly crafted. He records his feelings on love, human relationships, politics and spirituality.

In his political poems, he boldly touches areas that are shunned by many commentators. He does this with humour and authority. In his love poems, his voice is warm, confiding and intimate. While the poems are not showy or technically exciting, they have their own integrity.

He is an excellent writer who sets a glittering barb into every phrase. His political poems are a wonderful affirmation of life even in its darkest depths. The poems will either make you feel happy, sad, upbeat or distraught.

There is a grand sadness that creeps through some of these pages, many of which deal with the disappointment with the post-apartheid leaders and unfulfilled hopes. He speaks of the frustrations of the ordinary South Africans. Dear Citizens is one such poem in which he bemoans the aloofness of political leaders.

Twenty-One Gun Salutes When I Die is a touching poem of sadness, pain and deception.

The Heart’s Interpreter is a 74-page book that is both introspective and reflective in that the writer looks out at the world around him and brings it inside, where he twists it around within the realm of the personal and the emotional.

The poems are concise and punchy. His language is simple and does not clutter the reader’s mind with exaggerated vocabulary, a common feature in many political poems.

If you want to recharge your political batteries, Bofelo’s poems are a must-read.

this review originally appeared in the SOWETAN 23 January 2008

“These sounds take me home

I see myself sitting in a chair

Drinking homebrewed & eating homegrown

I mean true fruit & wholesome vegetables”

“Yeah! These tunes take me back in time

When we partied in our own lingo

With unrestrained laughter and chatter

Before the music gave way to the guns’ clatter

And merry dances were replaced by people’s scatter.”

The stereo blasts sounds of Papa Wemba

Kofi Olumide or Kanda Bongo man

This proud ‘Mzansi for sure’ fellow

Cares not much about the difference

The musical taste and dreams of

A poor barber and lousy tailor

& their rattle about the woes

Of war and the worries and bothers of exile

Not his baby to cuddle

He has an important meeting at City Hall

It is prudent to be punctual

At tender presentations

Needless to talk about

The importance of proper attire

Clothing is after-all the face of a person

& making money is the mark of a true man

He ogles the barber and the tailor

As they groove to the music

Chanting names of friends and relatives who

Died en route to land of gold and rand

Their counting of the number

Of acquaintances killed by xenophobes

Makes him squirm and wriggle

“My change, please! Make it snappy, I have a business meeting”

He conceals his snarl with a partial-smile

And turns to his country men on the queue

Muttering stuff that sparks guttural mirth

The lion and the jackal and the cat and the mouse

Forget about old scores to be settled

In the haste out of the furnace

The eland and the springbok exchange notes

On how to negotiate their way

Through the kiln-forest

To greener pastures & safer terrains

Poor sparrow hovers above the burning tree

Tears fall on the nest caught in the blaze

As she stretches her wings to fly

To an unknown forest into an uncertain future