Police

I was taking a piss on a graffiti ravaged wall when over my shoulder I saw a police patrol car pull over. I managed to quickly finish up between muffled curses and an effort to decipher what the policemen were shouting in what I presumed is Zulu. "Hey wena come over here" a policeman shouted. I walked over to the car in which two policemen were seated. One spoke in Zulu calmly, then begun to rant angrily all of a sudden.
"I can’t understand what you’re saying officer." I meekly stated.
"What language do you speak?" his partner asked.
"English sir" I informed him.
"What!" the angry officer shouted.
"I’m a foreigner." I hurriedly explained, "I’m Zambian."
"Ah the same country with Mbesuma." the angry officer said now smiling "How is he?"
"His well, I think. His scoring lots of goals I hear."
"I like that guy, he is a good player." the angry officer said keeping his smile "So, do you urinate in public in Zambia?"
"I’m sorry officer. I will never do it again."
The policemen begun to speak in vernacular, they laughed as they spoke. "So how much do you have for us?" he asked, "You know I can arrest you for this neh? And you’re drunk" he judged.
I pulled out my wallet, and only found had a R100 note. I gave it to him and asked "can you give me R50 change?" He scoffed at my request then drove off.

When I got home I told my housemates, Katlego and Olufemi (the Nigerian), about my run in with the police.
"Dude! You paid a 100bucks, you idiot. Foreigners have kak for brains" Katlego said.
"Hey shut up your mouth, I no go let you insult us like dat." Olufemi finishing off with 'Idiot'.
"You paid a 100bucks!! haw" Katlego repeated ignoring Olufemi, "I would pay 20rand tops mate."
"It was an act of goodwill bruv, to ease the policemen’s troubles and mine." I told Katlego "Yo man I hear JZ is introducing a tax on bribes, he made the announcement at the state of the nation address. This is in a bid to recoup the billions his ministers will steal."
"See what your government is up to, you now go tax bribes" Olufemi said.
"Don't even go there." Katlego warned. And we fell silent.

Owning A Dream In Lusaka Twas

An asylum is what cities strive to be,
All but the silences of it-
Unnecessary busy modes of transport transport;
Of which men and menful women hide in and on;
Talking to themselves-
Yet threatening to keep themselves unaroused of the realisation that it is to their own lone they talk;
They call it wireless.
Decorating collars with knots-
And cuffs with cufflinks;
Once more in manacles;
Lusaka has been accepted.
There is a whole world out-
Waiting on you;
To this knowledge brimming of esoteric keep steadfast;
For the stone city bothers no longer with sleep;
Honking,Pop music and harlots moaning in exaggerated bliss-
Having something to do with economics.
A mind warped in the idiocrisy of infancy dreams even whils't awake;
Always striving to remain dreaming despite Mother Knocking for to give childhood porridge;
Whose aspect only serves as a winding,moist and slippery stairway to a necropolis of reminiscences.
Now let there be Will;
First it was Will to find a way-
Down to bare Will.
Scribbling everywhere,
Fiddling anywhere;
A fiendish mind continues to keep a dream;
Somewhere in a mollycoddle little town in the breast of backwardness-
An intellectual harlequin refrains for to awake.

WINGS

There it was;
that look that says 'i sell sex to mankind';
it was there in all its degradingful femininistic loyalty-
with or without the R,
written it was in her eyes almost with a dash of dare;
Instantly i was filled with such a swell of respectful ardor;
for she lived a life in the esoterical extremes of the resolute.
The white serpent shook his head 'no'-
my heart whispered 'burn!' as it scooped rioting hot oil onto his face to have him just right;
Mary.
Mary.
Mary you are forgiven;
Mary you can go home now,
You are forgiven.

Another fucking poetry slam

Another fucking poetry slam

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

I met her in a restaurant reading,
A plain act but one that corrupted my thoughts with interest.

‘Hey, what are you reading?’
‘The heart is a lonely hunter’
‘Good read that is, John singer amused me. Nkandu is my name’
‘Lerato, nice to meet you’

She extends her hand,
I look at the finely taken care of fingers,
Perfect for turning pages, I think.

I return the hand shake
And during the period that my hand, in hers, moves up and down-my eyes wander at the contours of her lips
I think- I should say more

I said more,
Spoke mainly about what I perceived were her interests.
She mentioned him,
I paid no attention.
A meeting later,
Then a date,
After which she became my mate.

She then said ‘Nkandu, we can’t do this no more’
‘Is it Katlego’
‘Yes’
‘But why?’
‘I do not know, this just feels evil’

And so my heart began to hunt on its own.

I Guess Lions Tore Us Apart

Is it reasoned I drew the wrath of Eros

That we had to part?

I, this way, and ye, that?

Permit me to reminisce;

Standing in your presence was when i I joked-

That only could I keep a commitment-

with my love for pens bleeding black 'stead the red that livens your heart.

Looking into your eyes, those big brown eyes;

There you sat.

The ones that rose me up happy or sad. Gently.

Those same eyes;

That told me that if ever I wished, I would even fly;

Today I looked into them and they cared less;

Of all the jokes we ever did tell-

They cared less;

Of times we made love and your emotions did swell.

Those brown eyes so distant,

So cold, so cross,

I dared not push on,

I dared not to fight for what couldn't be won;

Ne'er to be complete as I dare not anger Anteros.

A Rush of Blood to The Head-Nkandu

All my efforts rest in a paper bin, in a crample fold.
Ideas sparkle; blue as lightening.
Yet all my tales have been told.
A grudge held, fueled by poets of old.

I wait on inspiration,
I wait in vain.
I make a girl of unfashionable beauty mine,
hoping she holds infant joy, to lift me out of this gloom.
Then I meet her pain of virgin experience.
I tell her I love her-I lie.
I lie in a bid to covince myslef I mean every lie.
our relationship spirals to friendship, I sigh, relieved?
Yet my tales are still of boyish experience.

I end by rushing blood to my head; I drag, take a swig and sniff.
The belfry signals both joy and sorrow; consumation of death.
Don't funeral bells sound alike? I return to the church for relief.
I give poetry one last glance while prose lays a wreath.