I am Mambo Ntema

I’m Mambo Ntema

My name is painted on the walls of traces and faces of thought,
Like fallen dreams at intimate talk to my person; I'm the silent wall;
That echoes in distant call to the art without fall,
I'm Mambo Ntema; the heritage. I descend from the Wayeyi peoples at birth,
I depend on the river's worth from birth, 
And I detach from the hands;

And tongues of a sinner's word— at ease when spoken word...

Detains me to become, than dead, 
I reside along long rivers of silent waters deep,
I recite along a long song of deeper but unhidden words of matters deep,
I write a kind you find in lines of inspirational minds of thought and life,
I'm the lineage that talks than hide my emotional walk to a tide,
I'm from the jungles of the mighty Wayeyi deep;
In the distant Matsaudi village, in the Eastern side of Ngamiland,

Along Tjaratjamba stream;
That snakes its golden silent wings towards Santandadibe, stretching

Along Khoo at peace— and waving its waters along Xoldi and Mazange at ease,
I rise between tallest grass and leaves of tallest trees— of basket weavers—

And gatherers of papyrus reeds, I come from a distant village that knows each;
Other's lineage; I'm the art from Ntema Shaldiwara Sinqaera the Great’s traces,
My mother's palm has faces of faded faces—

From ancient days; her tongues speak an ancient day—
When she calls my maiden name at day, 
Buyile; literally, it’s gone and faded,

She told, I'm the 6th from her pains—
She laboured, her prayers were rendered when silent rains—
Came to my shadow, she takes my hand strong and praise 
The Ancient persons gone, but stays—

When brighter days come, how great— it is, to be of such roots and faith,

Perhaps I'm the chosen one— that marvels when travels have patterns—

To an unknown one; I’m the roots to trees taller and leaves thicker than withers,

I’m the spoken word that utters when matters scatter in silent winters,

I’m the history of ancient history; 
My eyes shall stay longer and bolder,

I’m the victim of silent mystery; my ears shall hear for years longer,

I’m the son of scattered soils of abundant wild, but wild as a child,

I write my art in osmotic tango like a Mambo child,

I rise by the night when silent shadows of the dark define—

Their hearts of broken pieces like prisoners and their crime,

I am Mambo Ntema; the son of forefathers gone in their time,

And my footprints are painted in the soils where nations delight,

Their troubles are too many to tell but strengthened as might,

Under the sun of sunset breeze by the night,

I am the Poet, the musical echoes of the voiceless!

I'm a brother, a father and son of Africa's voiceless souls gone and present...

27052014-1430

Onalethuso Petruss Ntema

Our roots and culture define what we've become. Let’s concert and redefine the historical misconceptions through spoken art to preserve intangible cultural heritage of the gone. As time tells, days of our time shall be history to generations come. 

The Voice of a Shadow: Life, Reality and Mental inspiration poetry

2016

MAMBO de PoeT (Botswana) 

www.soulseedsntema.com/author  

www.facebook.com/opnmambo 

www.twitter.com/opnmambo 

www.PoemHunter.com/onalethuso-petruss-ntema 

www.SoundCloud.com/opnmambo 

www.soulseedsntema.com/buy