VONANI BILA

The Pig

I checked his shoes –
Rough and wild

And the nails –
Long and dirty

And the mouth –
Big and grubby

I checked his eyes –
Warped, wide awake though asleep

That’s how I notice a boar
Even in parliament

Too voracious
He even kills the piglets.

the dance

you dancers with painted faces –
bury your heads in shame,
silence those roaring bongo drums
around the blazing fires of burning incense,
remove leopard hides, horns, grass & reeds on your backs,
throw away your porcupine thorn hats, masks, cowrie shells
bangles, bells & beads,
cover your plump breasts & loins with a kanga,
for all these years you are but a catalogue image of starvation,
your slavers say your naked dance is exotic.

you dance
because your bellies are empty...
that’s how you fight boredom & the biting economic meltdown...
you men with villages of wives
you say spinning in circles, clapping & stamping the ground
for the cunning selfish folk wielding cameras
is a way out of shame
before your army of famished children...
now your sly daughters & wives with shy smiles
twirl & turn in bed
to please these beer-reeking tourists
& the slothful nicotine-belching ministers

just for a dollar
a pound sterling
a slice of bread & a bowl of soup
you dance until your feet are bloodied...
dreams muffled by despair

ready to be called
january, joao, jones...
selling your heritage too cheaply

you dance in hotels & airports
this dance on beaches & in curio shops
this dance on gala nights & in banquets
this futile ethnic tom-tom dance wearies my bones
i ask, dear african child, is that the meaning of your freedom?

Mandela, Have You Ever Wondered?

Have you ever wondered
As we pick up the dead, heavy
Weight of the ugly brutal past
That threatens to suffocate us,
Embarking on the Masakhane campaign
Rehumanising sickly-frail street children of the earth
Placing detoured souls under the caring golden sun,
That the global village bleeds from money madness?

Have you ever wondered
As we patch centuries-old
Fresh, gaping wounds,
Closing pockmarked cannonhole-riddled
Buildings that once eroded life like ebola
That so many relax in cosy gardens –
In electrified red duvets and make love?

Have you ever wondered
As you scratch your skin
Searching for your uniqueness – your own self
That the triumphant crowd retires to ghettoes?

Have you ever wondered?

On Julie’s Menu

Julie hangs around the main Elim Hospital gate
Everyday, even on Sunday
Watches burdened nurses carry dead babies
Placed in a container
Covered with a white cloth
He watches them bury the miscarried brood
In the morning
In the dumping heap
Behind the hospital

Silently, he creeps forward towards the dumping heap
A water-filled steel jug in hand
Like a mole, he burrows the heap of the grave
And removes the miscarried babies
Picks his dish for the day
Pulls a knife and cuts the head off
He sprinkles the body with water
Stuffs the body in the steel jug-pot
Reburies the other tiny corpses
He smiles and walks back to the hospital gate
Hands clutching his container

He mumbles like any mad fellow
Then, collects some wood, paper & grass
Puts fire in the open space
When the pot starts to bubble
No one must go near him
No one knows what’s on Julie’s menu
He eats meat without bones
With pap, everyday it must be tasty
He tells curious passerby patients,
Guards & visitors
That it’s a rabbit he’s munching

Now that the hospital officials have caught him
Cooking babies in the morning
Children are no longer buried in the dumping heap
They are bunt to ashes with coal
Julie the dog
That hunts babies
And eats them
At the hospital gate
Is missing
But no one misses him.

Apartheid Commando in the Park
(new vagabonds in Free South Africa)

His ragged body sprawled
On the lawn like a dog
Old apartheid commando
With scruffy beard
& unkempt bushy hair
Mumbled:

KAFFIRS ARE KAK

People simply walked past
Talking into cellphones.

His smelling drunken girlfriend
In tattered wear
Hobbled closer
She hugged & kissed him so madly
Gave him a bottle of liquor
He guzzled the beer
Swearing

Then he picked up his sign

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