My Name

Many people live in wonder where my name comes from,
It is unique and to that they all can't be fond.
Pallang is but my Sotho name,

They told me it is a very strange name,
Told me it's unique and awkward
That its even hard to pronounce
Yet still I spelled it to them
P-A-LL-A-N-G
PALLANG is my name
It was supposed to be with an H but white woman who did my cirtificate chose to exclude the H
Maybe she wanted to make it easier
But still it ain't approved...

I end up being called with odd names
Pallanga the xhosas have called me
Palleng, Pillang or even Thabang the whites and coloureds called me
Yet my name is sweet and easy to pronounce
I'm Pallang Mofokeng a Sotho child...

They ask what it means
I say
It means overflow
The rivers filled with overflowing waters,
The cup of David filled with blessings
Then from there still they don't understand...

I say
I got the name from my late grand father
He had 4 daughters and only one son who happens to be my father
When I was born his grand son
He called out loud to the region of Morefe in Walaza
"PHALLANG BAFOKENG REFEOwe NGWANA A MOSHANYANA"
Then he probably called me his second son my own father's young brother
The name means the overflowing of blessings in the Mofokemg clan.
Still my name is beyond their understanding

They claim it's too much complicated for their tongues to pronounce,
So they resort into calling me with the meaning of my name

I end up being called overflow
I Pallang son of the great basotho clan of BAFOKENG...

My Name...

threads woven around others become
something more than coloureds strands
the picture emerges ever so gently
details of a face late in proceedings
the seamstress, hair severe and concentrated glare
hears a voice outside the window
and the loom paints as her nimble fingers
pull and weave from six woollen scanes
greens for some trees and then
she releases the shades and pushing her chair
proceeds to the door to welcome someone

Reading the Bible, when Jesus died
Each time I was feeling suicidal. Grab onto the rifle,
Feeling ****** in those cycles. Who am I though, in the
These staying thoughts, wondering where to go?

Reading a newspaper, to impress the daily
Struggles of my neighbour. Asking for a teaspoon of cooking
Oil as a favour. We all bleed the same, but act as if we’re
Not made from the same creator?

Reading the comments, the racial barriers,
Looking black, but I was told I belonged to the coloureds.
White tongue speaking, too seem a little different, yet
I wasn’t regardless. A garden of people, but why did it feel
Like we weren’t any part of those pretty flowers?

Reading the gimmicks, the fake prophets, and
All of those acting religious. Irreligious, eerie thoughts
Of those seeing their own hate as a witness. Can you believe
This, or are we the generations just to repeat this?

Reading up on the icon, believing one could be my
Saviour while they’re well gone. I could remember all
Of the lyrics of a trendy song. But not enough verses of
My Bible with the dust on. Would I rise less to Heaven by
The next dawn?

Reading the tears of years, I’ve got the tragedy of
Losses to former peers. Not in death, but feels like it
When we haven’t spoken in years. It’s clear we weren’t
Here for too long, to relate on our greatest fears.

So I’m just reading, reading, reading,
Never to stop reading all that I see.
I’ve read into so much matters of this crazy world,
My eyes at times bleed.

I read on...

Today as I work
i can remember what the Pink fairy said to me
never wash your white shirts with the coloureds

That is so dam **rás ‘current.’.