Never judge a book by its cover - they say.
Never believe a man's word over his actions - they say.
Never trust without reason - they say.

Why not? - I say.

Humanity (as a virtue) is being crippled by humans as they
stride
past the crippled man, hunched-back and desperate to extend,
to stand up,
to reach out
for that can of coffee at the grocery store.

As they violate, debilitate and penetrate our
minds by starving
us of
education
and
taunt
us
with
grant
money.

As they reduce our
complexity and significance and capabilities
to
stats
charts
numbers
lines
dots
.

As they stand, staring
up
eleven floors
at a flailing, failing student ready to
jump.

As they stereotype us
into boxes
that we use to hold our belongings -
our interior design.

As they spend more
money in one day
than they
pay
the gardener over
a week.

As they scoff down ketchuped french fries
after saying they were
starving
whilst they edge
forward
at the
robot
to
ignore
hungry begging children.

As they complain about being
alone
when the others around them are also
human.

That's just it.
The 'they' that we always speak of,
'They'
are us.

Unsheltered, not oblivious -
we see the misery, suffering,
pathetic pain -
but we are ignorant of the
barefoot woman with
a load
on her head and
a life
on her back,
asking for a
lift.

Some of us see the strain
but convince ourselves that our efforts would be
insignificant,
assure ourselves that it is
hopeless,
we are helpless.

Science and religion
seem like parallel lines but
they
converge on the point that
Mankind
is a superior species.
'Made in his image.'
'Increased cranial capacity, developed the ability to reason.'
Yet we use that magnificence to justify our
INcapability?

Advanced beings in an age of connectivity and
so disconnected from the essence of our own kind.
We decide
to be
alone.

There are rainbows of
'umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu'
but Ubuntu becomes
'don't want to'
and apathy is what makes us insignificant
- indifferent and inhumane.

To those who
can read this,
we
are hypocrites
- together -
which means that we are never alone and thus we are made
able.
We are not helpless, we just
Help Less.

I refuse to hope less in humanity
and allow us to be coaxed into an inferiority-complex
when we can have
progress and
success but

Only after we have
oneness.

'Cape Town
is not in SA,'
she said.
My mind darts back to
the bus.

We sit
in an overly-cooled double-decker
like sweating bottles in a plastic cooler-box
- jerking and clunking and
squirming - skin stuck to PVC comfort
and upstairs,
breezing through
the city, taking in the sights.
Tourists.

I am a tourist in my own country.
We all are
because we cannot
span a hierarchy in
one lifespan.

For those that doubt -
let it be known that our land
is rich.
It can be noted in our gold
which brought the interest of European nations -
attracted to the glow of ore and the glint in our river rocks,
allowing them to watch
our brown-skinned beauties,
with clay pots and earthy skins beaded
with sweat, sway away
only to follow them
(not with sight alone)
and surrender the crown jewels
to enrich our land - a new born culture.

They knew our land was fertile.
They saw the potential of our fruit.
They brought the slaves with them.
They gave us coloured children,
European red in their veins and now picking white grapes off the vines.
They never wanted to leave
so they fermented,
barreled, corked.
They gave us jobs and homes and vaalwyn.
They took a lot
- our gold, our jewels, our women, our soil -
but they introduced
diversity.
We are rich.

But why is he so poor?
Don't look now
but on your left is a beggar.
Coloured,
clothes discoloured.
Unaware of our presence,
he digs through the refuse with a
growling stomach.

We all stare -
a double-decker full of eyes aimed
at the oblivious forager -
I turn my gaze.
How is it that we have
so much and so little
at the same time?
How is it that our president spends our income on Nkandla
and not this boy?
How is it that Helen and Patricia put up portable loos along the shanty fence
but have forgotten to feed this poor soul?
How is it possible for me to sit in uncomfortably icy air
while my brother burns under the glare of my fellow travelers?

He and I,
we are of the same land.
We are both rich.
Yet both of us display a reality
that neither of us truly deserves.

'Cape Town is in SA,'
I say.
We just have no idea.
Ignorance is indeed blissful
but it is also most wasteful.

Our land is rich and our people
deserve more than a blind eye.

Today
I took a shower.

The monsoon drummed
agaist my body,
waking all my organs up
and shaking them into place.

The steam
opened
up my pores,
pouring out impurities.
All that negativity
like strands of black hair
getting caught in the drain grate,
refusing to be irrelevant
but now not knots
in my back.

All of a sudden,
my lungs
remembered how deeply they could breathe.

The geyser hummed a solid
Aum
through my spinal cord,
charging up my brain
with little sparks.

My distressed skin,
scarred by stress-induced scratches,
stings and tingles
as if to say,
'Please, no more'
and I sigh in complacency.

There is something so ***** in being drenched.
Maybe you forget you
and who you have become
and what the world has shown you.
Maybe your molecules feel
connected to the earth again.
Newborns are 75 percent water after all.

Today,
I took a shower
that reminded me to savour
the life in me
and in doing so,
save myself
from myself.

There are fewer things
beautiful than ugly,
I know that stars are most
bright when they fall
from impassioned skies,
That when your skin
meets mine, I am like an
amnesiac being returned
a lifetime of memories.

I hate few things,
except, perhaps, the murky
lakes of your eyes,
The misty beaches we
explored until sunrise.
How you pressed your lips
to mine like a death wish,
that it was deplorable,
but we wanted more, more.

My body was a map
you tore apart when you
got tired of exploring it.
The ancient psalms of our
tongues cannot silence.
Ruins of ancient Rome
survive on your lips, yet
you still live, breathe.
You call yourself mortal.

Eyes wide open,
mind tightly shut,
we play victims to the postman
slotting news and letters
where little light filters through,
only as he sees fit.

Grotesque, gross manufacturers
spewing out page after page after page
of page three scandals -
of rich brats waxing lyrical,
American hip-hop DUIs,
fat cats cat-fighting.

Media
breast-feeds her gullible men
and milks the misfortunes.

We are part of the orchestra -
synchronised puppets looking to our
Master
to tell us
how
to read the notes.

Outside
there are flimsy flyers
advertising freedom
that have morphed into paper-planes,
but are impenetrable of ignorant masses,
flitting around the heads of the blind -
like cartoon characters after
being beaten up by
fists.

It is injustice.
Peel the scales from your eyes
and open the flood-gates, let forth the criticism!

Ask why an American singer's ten minute jail sentence
is more important than an Afghan girl's sentencing to be gang-*****.
Ask who the ten percent of the South African population are that receive sixty percent of our gross national income and how to alter that socio-economic gap.
Ask what is to become of learners who pass with thirty percent and if that is even possible when books aren't being delivered to schools.
Ask where one can find manifestos instead of accusations from each political party.

Do not let them dictate
your truths as
CAPITALISED LETTERS
with no urgency.
Do not let them confine
your insight to the ink on a page.

We are worth more than glossy sensationalism.
We are worthy of urgent honesty, transparency and enlightenment -
herein lies true freedom.

The liberation of the mind.
The uncoiling fist of a freedom fighter revealing the truth held within.

Amandla awethu.

Sometimes I worry
about the amount of things
I will have
left
to say to you next time -
should I make a list?

How will I account for segways?
(You take a lot of detours
and I follow in fear that you'll walk
away,
but I'm expected to find my way
back.)
I'll bring breadcrumbs next time;
maybe ducks will eat them though.

As long as I'm with you, anywhere
feels right.
Like on your kitchen counter,
sipping sickly sweet grape juice
while you microwaved popcorn.

Or on the stairs in the basement -
where I discovered your heart
beat
and you discovered that my lips are sweet.

Or crouched on the tiles behind the cabinet
with tears puddling around me
and I text you instructions not to call
but you
still
tried,
7 times,
and you said that it's okay if I say nothing.

Back to square one:
we find ourselves with phones to our ears -
(yours possibly taped to your head because
you like to eat at
1 am)
in silence together.

At some point, I cave -
'What's the point of this? We could be silent and not on the phone with each other.'

You reply - 'It's just better this way because I can
Feel you.'

We'll never run out of silence
because now it's all we have.

Hi
My middle name is inadequacy.

Don't ask for the first and last
because i
can't
provide
that.

I am the less than sign,
projecting
something greater -
an aspiration that you will never be.

I am every
'almost,'
'could have,'
'let down.'

I am in the settling.
I breathe out disappointment.
I forget to be better.

There is one good and one bad thing about me.
Both of them are
Hope.

It makes me and breaks you -
the anticipation.