I am but a Child of Poetry
I am but a child of poetry—that wields the sword of creativity…
To unearth the hidden truths in our society.
I am but a child of poetry…
That shields every word in poetic kind, a culprit of distorted rhymes and rhythms.
I am but a child in the Asylum of the Insane. For insanity arouses me.
It seduces me. Or the child in the Arms of Curiosity;
That wonders between the cross roads and Secrets of the Metropolis. I am but a child of history.
A child of Africa’s songs of a widow. As knowledge our victory;
From mental enslavement. A child in Chinua Achebe’s Ikemefuna of the Igbo. A complex tragedy;
Of the River Between in the voice of the Great Ngũgi wa Thiongo. And conquering;
The mind of a Black child, a sacred child, a child of Africa’s dream but treachery…
Had confused my innocent kind. I’m that captive;
In Wame Molefhe’s Go Tell the Sun short story…
And a Grain of Wheat in abundant fields but Petals of Blood. A mockery;
As worlds collide beneath hearts of clouded faces. And I still strive for my destiny.
I am but that African child in the heart of Africa’s ancestry.
I seek revenge through spoken word; a vessel of bravery.
What if I was born in the centuries? Would it be kind to enslave me?
Do you trust me? Would you harm me? Or decide to arm me? Would you betray me?
Would you forget that dreams tell in their own? Would you blame me?
Would you? Would you detain me for not being gold or constrain me?
Would you forsake me? What if I was born in the eighties?
Would you accuse me for being human, or glad to hate me?
Would you accuse me for not being human, or dread to trace me?
I am but a child in Soul Seeds, and do not provoke me,
Instead promote this spoken kind, the written kind to support this;
Creative course for our tongues to our ears we’d talk and listen, suppose it.
And I wish life could transgress for us to endure its practice;
Before the eyes of men. I wish time could stop this nonsensical stampede,
As mankind behold their weakness hunted.
I am but a child in Soul Seeds,
For my seeds need grow into trees to their leaves green.
I am but a melanin kind. A writer, a rural kind. A poetic matrix
In metaphors but tearful eyes to a victim.
I am not but a poet, an asylum to the reader. A mystic.
A mystery. A mirror but desire. A satire. The seeker.
And my voice shall speak in the Voice of a Shadow: Life, Reality and Mental inspiration poetry
For I am, but a child of poetry.
Onalethuso Petruss Buyile ‘Mambo’ NTEMA
THE VOICE OF A SHADOW: LIFE REALITY & MENTAL INSPIRATION POETRY, 2016
Nobert J. Mathumo (Botswana) – The Arms of Curiosity
Lucky M. Bulayani (Botswana) – Asylum of the Insane
Wame Molefhe (Botswana) – Go Tell the Sun
Chinua Achebe (Nigeria) – Things Fall Apart
Ngũgi wa Thiongo (Kenya) – The River Between, Petals of Blood, Grain of Wheat