Commonword Blogs

Context: Its 1985, and Zimbabwe has just gained Independence, but there is the threat of civil war in the air. David, a bookworm aged ten, watches from his school fence as soldiers violently break up a riot, beating old women, slashing open the stomachs of pregnant young women. One of the soldiers rapes a woman David is besotted with. David faints, and is rescued by his teacher. We pick up the story here....

Chapter Three

Ordinary Men

They took us out into the bush at night
And made us sing liberation songs till dawn but they couldn’t –
Dismantle the image we'd built of white men as gods in our minds

They spoke of Independence
Of Ghana, of Nigeria, of guerrilla warfare but they still –
Couldn’t take the fear out of our hearts

Finally, they beat us
When world war two began they told us to resist but we still –
Went off to enlist

Until we saw them –
Ordinary men
Comforting weeping wives
Kissing screaming children on their cheeks
“Back before Christmas!”

We of no name
Didn’t blow here on no boats
We flew here in aeroplanes
Didn’t march out in chains we walked out
Chasing dreams, following lovers
And yes, we do have our dictators
& some of us were running
But who cares what we sought? They threw us into prisons

When they set us free, we found them seething
Couldn’t understand our speaking
Wouldn’t pronounce our names
So they made up their own calling us leeches.
They placed us in the Cities -
With the fast life, fast women, fast Mercedes
Hardworking men, not steal or cheat men
Fascinated by such liberty

I've performed no poetry since my last poetry blog, hence the silence.
I've also written no poetry, hence the silence. But I did write half a poem two months ago that I couldnt finish, until this week.

In Case of Emergency

When buses become boxes
That hide secret motives to control a nation
When buses become boxes
Where people are encouraged 2 sit next 2 each other & not notice
Communication opportunities – it may be time to stand up and ring the bell

When buses drive us not to but away from the action

When buses become trenches

Its almost been a month since my last blog and still no word from Pete Kalu about my novel. A writer's winter. The frustration penetrates the skin like the cold but this cold doesn’t make you shiver, it heats you up and eats you up, makes you want to barge into someone's office and ask them what they're playing at, makes you want to give them the dismissive missive - forget it mate, I’ve found someone else who'll publish me, only I haven’t.
So what came first, the writer or his novel?

Its been 9 weeks, 2 days, 8 hours, 37 minutes and 18 seconds since my last blog. I have NOT been on holiday. It’s been 4 weeks, 1 day, 2 hours, 3 minutes and 23 seconds since the last Speakeasy. 6 weeks, 3 days, 1 hours, 32 minutes and 5 seconds since I walked into the first session of Ben Mellor’s ‘Performance vs Content’ workshop one hour late intent on improving my performance skills in time for the Speakeasy stage.

There must have been about 3 or 4 of 'em. Maybe even 5. I cant really remember. Dont... really - want to remember.. But Anyway, I must, O Blog Master, oh horror of horrors. How can I say this? Second time on the stage & I forgot my lines. There, its out. Its taken me 2 weeks.
I'd spent all morning memorizing. Didn't really have to; I mean, it was my latest poem, therefore it was my best poem. I even went to the Urbis event without my sheets. I'd memorized not one but two poems! After all, Segun had said seven minutes...

A Sample...

It pleases me that the poetry reading is in a library. I imagine a small audience and when I walk into the room on time to find only fellow poet Nabila and her family, the emptiness lends an air of confidence to the soul. It hovers, expands. 30 minutes later the same soul has shrunk at the sight of the growing audience. The event begins and Anjum introduces Nabila. Beside me sit Kervin Charles and Tachia Newall, both experienced poets. I watch her as she stands up, smiles, reads. I hear nothing of the poetry I normally enjoy.

I base the novel on fact. Little boys and girls forced to watch the rapes of their mothers, sisters and grandmothers by soldiers of a new African government. The questions: What is the psychological effect of this on these boys? How does this affect their future relationships with not only women but also their own penises? I dig deeper: Why do soldiers in conflict resort to rape in the first place? Is this just an army-taught tactic or the result of Me Tarzan you jane social engineering? If it is then does it have to be an endless cycle? If not then who will put a stop to it?