Tuesday, 31 March 2015

The Silent Letter: To Them It May Concern part I

The Silent Letter: To Them It May Concern Part I
To them it may concern their ear;
When days gone in silent despair,
To them it may compel, for men in vain to their flair…

When days come in silent clear, would you care to ear?
It’s been too longer than not to the working class,
Their voices have longer than thought to the falling toss,

And have longer than lost to a thought at pass,
And their master decides their future ones,
When at their white-heads ages gone—

Over and above all weaker when ages gone,
To the bones of their Creator on pages gone,
And their mental slavery intimidates their fall,

Paid them a poverty of hopeless bravery,
When their master reaps to the neighbouring—
Shadows of the ruling class,

Their tongues will rather keep a silent pass,
And the elite ones, their eyes know where to pass,
And how to cut your own pass when’s dark?

Remains unanswered, it’s been too longer than not—
To the working class, and too stronger than not to the hidden past,
Their plight has endless tears of the Ancient bourgeois—

With financial break downs at their ease,
Like morons over mental crackdown at peace,
But I wonder if these…

Poly-tricksters know and sympathize, of the masses,
Who feeds the other? Who reads the word utters,
Who needs the other? Who gives a loner?

Who feels when know? And who kills the law?
Who needs the law? New tricks assure,
Blue prints endure not, miles unknown,

Who is the thief? And who is the freak?
What makes a man, meek?
Is theirs a clique?

Or a stratum of matters quick?
What not to them it concerns when shadows trick?
And their hands dig deeper to their lawless feet,

To which side of their greed need it matter so weak?
When silent masses far-gone to their proletarian feed,
What goes into the hands of the few at their day?

And does it come with nature or human, a slave?
When will it fade away to a distant wave?
To whom need it concern, or a stolen brave?

To whom does it concern, or a golden grave?
And whose purpose do we serve to a nerve?
Or is it the end to spend all life behind an edge?


Onalethuso Petruss Buyile Ntema

Author of SOUL SEEDS (2014)

Interviews and Conversations:
Daily News: http://www.dailynews.gov.bw/mobile/news-details.php?nid=17385&flag=
The Black Apostle: http://www.theblackapostle.com/#!Soul-Seeds/cuhk/5500237b0cf24585979fe2ad
Afro-Artivism: https://afroartvism.wordpress.com/2014/11/03/conversations-with-onalethuso-petruss-buyile-mambo-ntema/

More POEMS on http://www.PoemHunter.com/onalethuso-petruss-ntema/

Copyright protected. All rights reserved.

Monday, 30 March 2015

The Voice of a Shadow (part I)

The Voice of a Shadow Part I

Am I the shadow? Am I the voice of a shadow? 
Or the moon that shines;
To the full moon brighter…
Like the morning stars in sacred shadows,
I'm the sun that shines;
As days beyond the shadow…
A candle in the dark, 
A struggle in the past;
A struggle in silent heart, 
I trouble in silent talk;
As days in violent days,
As days in silent days...
I'm the future of my days;
As days to my future days,
I'm the soil in fertile land;
My seed grows for generations come,
My hand touches wildly but calm;
As dry grass and pieces of dry leaves—
And twigs of tallest trees forgone,
I'm the ancient stones between mountains high;
As stones beneath rocks,
As labourers dig such fortunes for the chosen ones;
Their faces sweat in sacred laughter—
But faded as reality unfolds,
I'm the great fishermen by the long;
Rivers for too long;
Before man could be taught...
And before laws became the day's song,
How I long for you O full moon!
And how I wish I were you O full moon!
How could you gone O full moon!
Will you stay a little longer than before?
How I yearn for days like yours O full moon!
But I am the voice of a shadow;
That roars between life and the shadow,
I am the ancestral soul between shadows;
Of yesterdays, today and tomorrow,
I am the voice that calms without force;
As winds of change from dust to coast,
I descend from places unknown;
As death, yet death does not proud its cause,
How I long for rainy days between my shadow;
For I'd sing a rain song like tribes of ancient souls,
And say in voices of a shadow;
Like natives in their faded shadows,
For I am that voice of a shadow in thick shadows;
Where words echo in silent smiles but sorrow,
As drenched in darkest shadows;
Of life and its mystics, but wide in forbidden shallow...


Onalethuso Petruss Buyile Ntema
The Voice of a Shadow
2015 (not published)
All rights reserved. Copyright protected.

Link: http://soulseedsntema.blogspot.com/2015/03/the-voice-of-shadow-part-i.html
Website: www.soulseedsntema.com

The Silent Thought (I'm not Alone)

The Silent Thought (I'm not alone)
Why do I stay alone? Why do I live alone?
Am I (really) alone?
Or do I not know [that I’m alone]?

But why need not I find a silent heart?
Why need I not find a silent ear, a silent thought?
Why need not I listen to its silent voice?

Is it the silence in me, or the inner being?
Why need not I hear to its silent voice;
In song like silent river across rivers?

Who is the voice in me?
Whose voice do I hear talk to my silent thought?
I can hear deep voices deeper;

In silent stories deep, and who is that voice deeper?
Who is the voice in me?
Who is the silent keeper?

Am I not alone? Does thought talk?
Does the heart and mind talk?
Who is the silent one? Am I alone?

Then what is the voice in me, if I’m alone?
Or if I (ever) thought so, think I’m not,
Because I’m the silent thought;

That knows the shadow,
I’m the silent one; I’m the silent winds that blow;
In desert soils of the distant gone,

I’m the foot that walks long;
Longer, I’m the few that crawls,
I’m the toe that walks longer;

When push comes to shove, a little longer,
I’m the root of ancient heritage and trees taller;
Between seasons green to their leaves,

I’m the silent thought; I’m the stolen piece;
Of silent pebbles in silent peace,
I’m the petal of flowers at ease—

When sudden thunder storms over each,
I’m not alone, and this is my silent thought;
As I walk a mile at a time,

And await my eyes shine;
To smile....
And talk longer in silence a mile!


You see, it is the art to life when words labour us into deepest reasoning and thought. The will and the means to such art amazes. Circumstances do matter us speak, ask or do. 

- Onalethuso Petruss Buyile NtemaThe Voice of a Shadow2015 (unpublished)(c) All rights reserved. Copyright protected.

Friday, 27 March 2015




 Albert Sithole ft Tawanda Matemai, Pardon Simango, Blessing Masora, Gaylord Munemo, Raymond Chigiya, Donald Kuutsi, Deb Harman, Mudikani Gondora, Monica Rupazo, Mpho Leteng , Ashley Mawere, Simbarashe Mudukuti, Phumulani Chipandamira, Onalethuso Petruss Buyile Ntema, Trinity Moyo. & Stevens Cadet
Affectionate or passionate,
I feel confused
Is my soul separating with flesh?
I feel thrilled
Level of ecstasy that will take any being to
Heaven without wings, that l
Being in the Abundant Land of Poets, l feel
A token of appreciation to the one who had
the ability to contemplate in
bringing the idea into reality
You took thoughts hidden behind bars of the
unseen world,
And gave them a platform to showcase what
they possess.....or should l
say.......what they are possessed of.....my

We are clothed in steel yet our muscles
So flexible, our barrels void of ink,
But they said we wrote a note,
It talked about unity and love,
Behold, yes God is love

Hearts pound like hammer,
Pumping blood like a machine,
Exploding mind charged,
Pen and paper ready to record,
Showers of rhyme deep inside.
Land of poets, my dwelling,
My barricade or rather escapade
From the tinges of an ugly world
Warm shelters of the word,
Calm lonely hearts and milk coated lips
Speaking of which there is no say,
A playback of retraction
Preamble of new words
Words not minced, fluently spoken
Heads burst with ideas
One word spoken
Fair land of the poets

And art became the symbol of our time,
Poetry the reward our words envisaged,
Exceeding in knowledge and wisdom,
Withdraw not your pen the speaker

Land of poets a reality
It's as though we are in dreamland,
Yet from the dream we wake up not.
Words flowing
Feelings rolling,
Emotions popping,
As we live in another world
Voices put at high tones,
Words brought beyond thoughts,
As our world is real,

Its that thing you dont want to miss,
No! Not by an inch.
Reality put in words,
As it is a language of our world,
Its poetry as a land,
Poets as the dwellers,
It can be could be termed  popostrous
Yet for us it is REAL
Its the side of the world that  speaks
Speaking of the hidden feelings,
Coming together to be seen and heard,
The land of poets...
A reality

In it some cry,
Others sob unexplainably
Those who can,  giggle at a joke
Yet its  our life talk

The  ones inside cant come out
Its a joyride that cant be stopped,
Its how we live
How we show our livelihood
Yet still mantaining the neighbourhood
Cultivating results after every standout
Its where we come from
Land of poets, a reality

Lord, give us endless lines,
Good morning Lord Jesus
Grand us the knowledge of King David,
The wisdom of King Solomon,
Our aspiration of excelling wit,
Our fathers and archetypes of poetry
Withdraw not your pen the lyricist

Temperature rises within my lyrical head
Amazes many I appear to be less ahead
I made an alliance with my better side
Honesty I walk abreast its what I wedded
Poetry a masterpiece work a master no one can fake
It's all blubber to some but life to us which no rival will take
We stand for what we are gifted at a software no one can hake
It fills in what I lack mends me when I break
How surprising it groomed me from a dirty sake
To a role model of many a perfect make
A mourner to a thanks giver a surviver
A giant a proud soul once a chancier
A used to be life taker to become a life giver
Poetry I was baptized in it's name and deep river
An idealist entrepreneur a piece mover
From being a responsibility to being responsible
A rolling model now a role model
Now drinking to life raising glasses of cocktails
A problem child to cash-cow a straight denial
Denial to failure
Protecter of poetry and nature
Thank them they made me mature
Became more of a man and secure
Strengthened me to be terminating steel more endure
 A land of poets assumed to be a fantasy
A world of jargons rhymes a reality
A life time investment a product fertility
A space saturated with humor and adventure with no gravity
A land we live on our own rule where we execute all poet negativity
An industry which operates on less expected facilities

From grand slam to grand slam,
Here we are; the art of the imminent
A stupor of the present-day past
A prelude to the book of the great
There we envisage the ink of our might,
Splashing it upon the scrolls of our time
Our words spears to the skeptic world,
Beware of the ink yea white paper,
Beware! The poet reiterates
Who then shall despise the art of modernity?
Crafted in the palms of contemporary knack,
Inspired of classical linguistic verbatim,
There it shoots from the land poetry,
To the caricatured, desolated and staccato
The magnitude reads and ponders the diction,
Mesmerized, transfixed and hypnotised
And unto the great writer extended is our veneration,
Despite the constant and vivid competition,
And unto all representatives here and away,
Deny not our applause; you are prodigious models of art
And unto the pioneers of fine modern poetry,
The diction of the lone poet will never skip thee,
Even in melancholy, trenched in soliloquize,
The poets remember the conduit you walked,
Their discernments wide awake behind your footprints,
Witness, they lead to the Land of Poets,
Where bliss and unuttered thoughts are stamped on paper,
Where ink recognizes none but the philosophy of art,
Expressed in systematic and orthodox sonnets
Here we are the poets of the south

Welcome to the land of poets '
Where thoughts go beyond without any boundaries
The land being poetry to the soul
Sky being the limit,
As the land of poets is a reality,
Ego drawing the Thoughts close to reality,
Words and rhymes unleash the co-existence of truth
Uncliping wings of imagination,
Poetry in a motion,
Exposing what was lost in translation
Even if the heart beat skips
Breaking the code of silence,
when words fail,
Ink and thoughts collide on paper ,
Being the voice of the voiceless,
Unveiling the poetic justice,
Poetry being the hotline of emotions,
Heart beats
Filled with passion knocking on the chest
Far away in the land of poets
Where words, rhymes & voices are translated into reality
Ego and emotions painting the portrait of reality whilst the mind will
be in ecstasy
Poetry of the earth is never dead
Even if Maya Angelou, Ab banjo Patterson, Mary demi Gilmore
Are gone the poetic legacy they left will stay forever
A sign of emotality in poetry
For the land of poets to be a reality

For the angel of wings gathers
By strength in faith
In fortune in the land
Of poets quill destiny
Is there write truly
Somewhat so holy
But they do live for a rule soil
And soul by girth their
Way of believe and peace
For that they belief for happiness
Great is their morals in scriptures
Times of legends chime
For the roam of rise
In the Sun of majesty land
Beautiful like amazon Eden
For the sea ocean is wavy
Mission is certainly complete
In love vision in ink of chapters
Verses in ancestry scrolls feather
In the by the rivers golden flowers
Of delight right by rainbows shrine

And there we write about the need for love,
The need for justice and the need for peace,
Equality and human freedom,
Withdraw not your pen versifier

In that land.
A place were poetry revolves around it and evolves within it.
That place is my home,
Where i truly belong
A place were words, Have a deeper artistic touch.
Were we put our minds on paper,
And our thoughts are together graphed on tablets.
A poets' land were imagination is a reality.
A place  with beings  That redefine beauty and excellency.
Blessed by a people that
Give awesomeness a meaning.
With words blazing with the art of beauty
Its a world in another world.
That land of poets is a reality.

'They speak indifferently, with less humanity and great humility.
They see without glasses, for without eyes within them they still see.
They walk without feet yet in boots they gather.
They touch with words and as dry bones live, words survive without lungs.'

'It is a land of love and beautiful wars that spill less blood than they kill,
Warriors who wear armors as Achilles to redeem for the grieving souls.
Their nature reigns in mortal breathe and,
As the strength of their vision lasts the beauty of their eternity
strikes. Their legacy never dies, for each one bears a similar hope
The hope to make the world a better place.'

'Here you may wonder how words in light can reach a heart in hell,
How one measured wisdom can conquer a city,
How faith little less than a mustard seed can move a mountain,
How comfort in pain suits a master and sets him to his bed.
But the truth of all this world beyond, is secret.'

Like the deep I dwell in such places faraway far,
W Dr.Too soon amid the nears far,
Where I serve up the gremlin star,
Without task or promise
But words paddling across my mind like a neonatal regal Parr
To interlace logically into wily arrays
Which when you read lead line by line
It makes more sense the phrase,
I fissure with my absent hammer like Thor
And the words bleed out through the crevices
To run with running streams
And replenish parched minds with a little bit of who I really am,
Some will say spoken word!
But my mouth is sealed; I didn't say a thing!
Some will say my revered pen seeped its ink on clean pages
But my hand is innocent; I didn't write a thing!
I dwell in such places faraway far,
Too soon amidst the confines of poetry's stable traces,
A one-off, matchless world here; I see fabled beings as well new faces
Called together by a calling undeniable; A shared interest!
To tell a famous telling of who we really are,
Some will say spoken word!
But our mouths are sealed; we didn't say a thing!
Some will say our writing implements leached ink on pure sheets
But our hands are innocent; we didn't write a thing!

Is all I am just a man?
Is all I'm worth defined by the shores of this A4 island?
If I'm out of ink it makes sense why I'm misunderstood.
Misunderstood because my emotions appear untamed and twisted
Twisted in time because with this world I seem out of touch
Although out of touch I'll say my words are never foreign in this place

So place a finger on your lips and hush .......
As your hearts whisper the directions you'll find the way
The way to your soul where a poet lies asleep
A land from whence dreams are birthed,
and imaginations spawned
A place where your potential lies,
But principalities will never want you to see .

Now tell me if all you are is just a man?
Or a land from which wisdom flows?
Tell me if we are worth no more than compliant machines,
Because I see a world full of poets yet to be awakened
A land of poets untamed

Here lies our land
Beneath swift clouds,
Glad to shine like the sun,
Belonging to none but itself.
We are mere transients,
Who tell the tale behind the hidden tail
The folk who stand tall to tell others that
we were there
When laughter becomes you language,
People start to ask you questions,
When your answers lead to happiness
Know that you have arrived in the land
The land of the poet
Its real
I have been there
Please join us
Till we meet you there
au revoir!

(Let me) Spread my wings further to the land of poets;
The land of spoken word in reality, to sprout within us,
To share between us expressions of thought beneath us;
For-- a poet is a treasure,
And to the strange a stranger of a powerful kind;
A matter, a treasure of dozen words between the lines,
A traitor to the mean, a sailor to the seas of oceans deep;
To the roots of trees taller when tallest trees...
Shaded their leaves green,
My name is Africa-- I am a son of Africa's dream;
I am just not a poet but a writer;
And I write for my off-springs with palms of a reader,
A long walk to freedom-- footprints of a thinker;
In undertones of spoken words I am a reciter...
That recite(s) in echoes of ancient voices;
For life I am a seeker, and time is the healer,
But my heart is swollen like flowers in winter; Days wither,
As nations of men betrayed their Giver;
And women enslaved their faces to a mirror,
Who is the teacher, when pictures on the walls;
Of many hearts have memories of tears and fears to the soul?
Can I be the seeker of spoken word before gone?
And before my ancestral tongues are provoked,

My mind is a land of poetry beyond thought.
My exiled self consciously visit the land of my inner self.
Forgotten memories, betrayed feelings and despair are the hosts.
The sacred blood irrigates the cemetry of poems in my careful mind.
Land of poetry is hanging over serrated hinges of serenity and
revolving in the vacuum of self-limiting.
I can not free myself of the thought of this mind-land.
For the love of poetry i permeate in this land imbued in my mind.

(Let me) Cross my legs crossed at the crossroads;
And read from pages of imaginative kind...
A chronic kind, a silent wind that blows away my mind;
Further to the hills and valleys of an ancient kind,
For the voice beneath us is peace and solid
hearts of faded times;
How can hatred divide a stolen smile?
Would there still be painted walls of a broken heart?
But I surrender when I fall, for tomorrow is unknown to none;
I render as I told, for the arrow knows it's unknown one,
But innocent faces behold their days calm;
In the land of poets and mercenaries of spoken minds,
The land of spoken word in reality to sprout within us;
Across silent rivers
from Matsaudi, along long rivers long,
Around a fire place at dawn, stories untold were told;
In songs of ancient rhythms of melodies old...
When dark clouds behold their fall, we silently crawl,
To define our purpose as daughters and sons of Africa;
Where souls of forefathers gone reside in memories long,
For life is in abundance, and death is in dozens;
To carry us in existence, and cherish our days long,
To bury hidden treasures in books of missing pages gone,
But the land of poets--a reality, when greatest forces;
Collide to break between pieces of stones, and
the grass green winters...
Dry; winters die, prisoners die in silent cold, seekers find;
Brothers fight, lovers deny, merchants lie,preachers blind,
Prisoned in poisoned laws of man;
Like a poet captured in frustrated hands of a child,
In darkest land of poets a reality in the wild;
And a unity amidst fallen times of rivalry but freedom,
See? Do we really have freedom to speak what we seek to speak?
Yes? No? What is freedom of speech;
When life is faded by death in dozens deep?
Where treachery a reason, but told our own when flowers blossom,
And this is the land of poets a reality, our relic--
Our antique...

And these words are the same, for a million years,
And the motion the same, for a thousand more years,
Great be the writers of this poetic justice,
Greater the hidden talents beneath,
Greatest the eyes that read,
And hence we shout, POETRY TO THE WORLD.

Art fills our walls
Inspiration from interaction
A form created for therapy, love, laughter,
intellectual thought
In this land, Poetry is our language of choice
And ink, became just much a necessity as
We need to function, and our bodies is mostly
made of it
No poison from the ashes, for this pencil lead
To new ideas, new love and ways to repent
Deepest secrets kept close in our syllables
Pronunciation takes the place of a saying that
"I can tell many things by your body language"
We see words on walls, but the ones we create
we seldom attempt to hang it
There is no judge or jury in our land
Our most sacred tool is a Pen
And if you're not from this land..
Then you might not understand.

#Raymond Chigiya------Industrial Relations GZU
#Trinity Moyo-----------Special honours GZU
#Simbarashe Mudukuti--I.T GZU
#Donald Kuutsi-- ND marketing management Harare Poly
#Albert Sithole---ND purchasing & supply Management kwekwe poly
#Blessing Masora~ Upper 6 Commercials Judge Academic College
#Mudikani Gondora - Upper 6 Commercials Malborough High school
#Pardon Simango  - Spoken Word artist and poet
#Phumulani Chipandamira- W.I.N ZIM author& poet
Mpho leteng [BOTSWANA]-Spoken word artist and Poet
#ONALETHUSO P.B NTEMA, BOTSWANA]—BA (Sociology) University of Botswana, Author of the Soul Seeds, Spoken Word artist, dub-Poet & cultural activist
#Deb Harman, Australia--Poet, songwriter, Singer, spoken word artist
#Ashley Mawere----Medicine student Wits University South Africa
#Tawanda Matemai- Entrepreneur / Poet
#Monica Rupazo---- University of Zimbabwe
#Stevens Cadet----UDC College USA, Published Author of beautiful Misery

A transnational poetry collaboration between and by colleagues and other poets around the world in commemoration of WORLD POETRY DAY held annually on 21 MARCH. Published in the Sunday Mail bridge (Zimbabwe). Special thanks to Donald Munyaradzi Kuutsi for the invite! oneBlood.

Thursday, 19 March 2015

Conversations with Lucky, Kopo and Prince

Art Thou the Poet and Writer I Know?[1]

Conversations 01042014 at sunshine

“…Copo Kalvocoressi Montgomery, Lucky M. Bulayani will tell you that as a writer and an orator, for him to achieve anything noble, anything enduring, it must be by giving himself absolutely to his material. And this gift of sympathy is his great gift; just as it is Onalethuso Petruss Buyile Mambo de Poet Ntema’s great gift; it is the gift of those who pursue their virtues before they pursue the opinions of society. It is the fine resilience (and focus) in them that alone can make their work grand. If we have the same approach to life as young kinfolks, as entrepreneurs, as scientists, then we cannot fail my brother. That is the survival mechanisms that can sustain us all,” – Thabo Prince Katlholo.

“Life knows no other than life in its realistic sense, and whatever one strikes to pursue, it is either you make it or not. But whether you make it or not, it is upon such a soul to create, initiate, meditate or brave, elevate or grave, celebrate or crave, etc. it takes more than a corn to fill up the basket. As always said, life is a spiritual journey irrespective of one’s religious affirmations. Even the toad does none other than live. Or will thou go ask lions when they meet in their desert or rain?” Onalethuso Petruss Buyile ‘Mambo de Poet’ Ntema.

“Art thou the poet and writer I know? Art thou word that troubles poetry frequent a times! How can I do without Buyile! Only to submerge my person into trembles like a leaf in a harmattan season.” – Copo Kalvocoressi Montgomery.

“….And who that man is? He that stands (taller) than seen, and stretch a little further when the going runs rough… Or will thou (art) go ask the creator?  From whence we come and so grow. Life and existence unto us He (has long) granted without born. Who? Unto whom need we repel or attract? Are we not human? Why do we say and tell the way we do? Why do we say in broken voices? Do we surrender (un)to will-power and crawl? Are we not human? In what circumstances do we become human, and what don’t we? Or will thou walk talk the poet inside yours and mine to reveal the unknown? What don’t we know?  What do we know? Such words we share as the natural other redeems a distant heart; to keep going without fall, and rise again, if and when we let be…” – Onalethuso Petrss Buyile Mambo Ntema

[1] Source: https://www.facebook.com/prince.ville.90/posts

I'll Whisper in your Ears (Part III)

I’ll Whisper in Your Ears (Part III)

I will whisper warmth destined for your depth,
And as I whisper into your ears, let my lips envelope;
Yours to unseal the wounds you hide,
Allow my aged hands to define each word;
I sound, may they feel your soul’s heartbeat,
Let me caress you longer, and let my caressed words;
Send chills unknown,
And let my whispers rule that forbidden throne…
Let me touch you further in your body and soul;
As my hands hold in untold fairies and whisper in your ears loud,
Not too loud for miles to hear but a little louder for you to be here…

I yearn for a silent voice with eyes closed in winter days;
When seasons cuddle each other’s shoulder,
And I will whisper sacred words of love to the beholder;
In scattered but faded voices older…
When echoes of the wilderness summoned in dozen whispers,
Let me wipe off those silent tears in sudden winters;
For tears fall when eye drops fall in swollen soils wither,
In quiet moments I long for you to whisper;
A distant scream so often resembles the power behind your whisper,
And take over my being with your subtle undertone;
And hum in beautiful arms on a lower tone,
When moon light our doors will shine in open arms like songs of a baritone…

Let me be the strings to your Spanish guitar;
Like dreams of a traveller’s night,
As you did to my ears when I fell into your soft melody;
When eyes blue like footprints of a drifter,
Let me whisper in your dreams when treasures do collide in whisper;
Like shakers and rattles of a musical rhetoric teacher,
With serene monotones from your heart beat in dozen times deeper;
Where flowers grow in shaded gardens and whisper,
In my ears long as you wish, I will whisper;
In your ears like butterflies in olden days as love on a picture,
How great thou art O love so divine when whispers;
Tell in their smiles but sigh when miles demand us more than a seeker…


Co-written by Yolanda Nkonjera and Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
Edited by Yolanda and Mambo de Poet

- The Voice of a Shadow, 2015