Why I attended Africa Child’s Day Celebration in Juba
The youth, especially the ‘busiest ones’, have begun to shun functions of noble causes these days. Even Sundays are suffering from under-attendance. The reasons cannot only be traced to this world with its ‘civilization’ advancing at a breakneck speed, that our generation is indulging in too much today. No, there are more causes of this ‘drought’ in the halls of ceremonies at the times our nationalism is less than one year old. I feel, there is more than we know, which begs for a research.
For me, being an ardent addict of listening, reading and writing (speaking later) in that order, I attended this celebration just as I do others, almost exclusively earmarked for children with special needs (they call it disabilities) at Nyakuron Cultural Centre on June 16, 2012 because:
1- I’m a parent.
2- I have suffered a great deal under our modern apartheid and fought at my early teen in my modern Soweto to achieve these freedoms, which have made everyone, including my age-mates, the youth, choose what to attend and what not to; hence the forgetting of the children’s day, a day not far from their age and sage.
3- I am a citizen of the Republic of South Sudan, period. And one of the functions of a good citizen is not only to pay taxes but also to pay attention to the functions of their nation. That is only when one wants to become a first class citizen. Yes, however monotonous the ceremonies must be and however boring the political speeches might sound, you must be there to sing our national hymn and shout ‘Oyee’ if you want to be part and parcel of the congregants of this new church called South Sudan, for which this generation is warming up for pastoring (sounds like pestering).
As for those who thought such events are childish, that thought is even boyish. In the hall, I enjoyed a nostalgia of my good old days of guided drama, silly questions, innocent mistakes from pupils and unprofessional errors made by their teachers. I thought I dressed really, but was forced to suspect at the entrance that I dressed ‘silly’— especially when Grace, one of my comrades from The Citizen, wondered in an appreciative voice, “Hey, you look like a schoolboy today!” I did not say the usual hypocritical ‘thank you’ because I failed to decode the comment, having come out of the mouth of a learned lady. You know, I sometimes fail to predict ladies, even mine. The right answer left for me was, “Of course, this is their day.” She knew I was right, even if my other guys are always overladden with suits on weekender parties in the name of being ‘smart’. I began to hate suit not because I am in an informal world, but, methinks again, suits are:
– Not for the youth, the youthful ones; they are for the youthless lots. They make me avuncular in looks!
– A symbol of laziness and pretense. Yes, the youth of the South must be simple and energetic if we want towns not only to go to the villages but also to grow tall. How negatively symbolic? Those guys think if they are enveloped up in this heavy clothe of slowness, they walk and talk like a ‘beny’ or ‘kuor’ or boss, or even both. This, I hate!
– For the well off, yet we are badly off– another hyper hypocrisy I detest in our virgin republic.
That aside, the 16th day of the 6th month in the Year of our Lord (AD 2012), is called Africa Child’s Day. This is because it is the only incident in history where children (I mean children biologically) have attempted to fight for their rights against a bad regime. Mind you, the African children of that shanty town did not fight silently, they did fight violently. This happened in 1976 at Soweto township of South Africa, and its replica happened in the 80s and 90s in shanty villages in South Sudan (the then Sudan). As thousands of school toddlers poured into the streets to demand a change in the conditions of their schools (education in general), they were crushed with excessive force by the Apartheid Regime under the Boers rule in South Africa. To kill over 170 children in one day just because they have asked you to exclude your language from their classroom is an abomination in the nation of humans not only condemned herein but also hereafter and thereafter, say, on earth as also in heaven. Amen! This is how it happened.
“Black high school students in Soweto protested against the Afrikaans Medium Decree of 1974 which forced all black schools to use Afrikaans and English in a 50-50 mix as languages of instruction. The Regional Director of Bantu Education (Northern Transvaal Region), J.G. Erasmus, told Circuit Inspectors and Principals of Schools that from January 1, 1975, Afrikaans had to be used for mathematics, arithmetic, and social studies from standard five (7th grade), according to the Afrikaans Medium Decree; English would be the medium of instruction for general science and practical subjects (homecraft, needlework, woodwork, metalwork, art, agricultural science).Indigenous languages would only be used for religion instruction, music, and physical culture.” See Wikipedia.
The whole barbarism is picturesquely explained in the Sarafina movie, and only equaled in magnitude and attitude by what is now happening in Nuba Mountains, Blue Nile and Darfur. Click this Weakleak link, but advisably after completing your reading, for the ‘Sarafina of the Nuba Mountains’ on your favourite blog: https://weakleak.wordpress.com/2011/07/03/my-tears-for-the-sudanese-sarafina/
Those who did not go there had lost a great day. The brand of entertainment I witnessed at Nyakuron Cultural Centre (Juba) this Saturday made me regret why I always pay my money for weekend movies on rediffusion boxes (TVs) that are produced and reproduced in foreign land, in foreign languages, by foreign actors and presenters. What is like taking part in a live super traditional dance staged by a negligible group of kids as shown in this picture (to be attached)? I tell you, the Acholi dance I absorbed into my system today made me wished I were the president of an African Republic of Culture, to declare such a dance a national dance – to be performed weekly by all, old and young alike. I bet you my own talent, if the likes of Kudusays and Kembes were to be welcomed onto this stage, I would protest and march out, wallahi!
That was not me alone. The Deputy Minister for General Education and Instruction, H.E. Rebecca Joshua, once my humble media comrade, had to order for another round of this morally nutritious culture cuisine, which was served us last, and was served hot! Not only that, but it was also delivered on a resonant calabash of the Luo folks, rattled by a naturally talented baby-troupe of the Parajok species of the Cush Homo sapiens, the blessed survivors of South Sudan. Those kids, they can dance! And their mothers’ representatives, too: the two deputy ministers of Education and Gender, Child and Social Welfare (Rebecca Kwaci and Dr. Prescilla Nyawang) respectively, respectfully made us proud with their ageing talents – both dances and speeches. They also gave the audience a chance for chants, this time the usual oyee but indirectly in a mother tongue of the staged children. Can you translate ‘oyee’ in yours?
For the speeches, this sincere Dr. Nyawang took me back to my late 80s and early 90s of the Jesh Ahmr (Red Army), linking it to the African children’s liberation struggle. Oh my, I am made mad if somebody touches my living history, especially the FACE Foundation quest for education. This acronym, very African. It stands for The Friend of African Educational Children’s (FACE) Foundation, thanks to Dr. John Garang de Mabior and Hon. Mickey Leyland for that effort. Unfortunately, both of them died in a chopper crush, 15 years apart! And,fortunately, their seeds can now write thus.
Besides, there was this statement that did not only make my day but also made the climax of the peace of mind, which is mine, and which is now expressed in this piece of mind, which is also mine. I seldom praise government figures, but this one is an exception, not because it was made by my former comrade of the press, but because it was made by a deputy minister, of course, for the cause of that day. So there are even some parents-cum-ministers who could wish to share their dimes with the street kids in this government! Rebecca Joshua boldly put it in an insinuation, apparently to previous speakers’ pessimistic complaints, “We know education for the children with special needs is very expensive. But nothing is too expensive for our children. Even if it means selling these clothes we are wearing, or the (funny) furniture we are using, or the (fancy) cars we are driving, we must do it.” (Quote not verbatim since I did not use a metal but a mental voice recorder).
For a government high ranking official to say that calls for a high ranking integrity requirement to do it. Well, we know the age of the post known as ‘deputy minister’ in the current lot of the Government of South Sudan, moreover this is her maiden appointment. That statement would really make news and raise eyebrows if it were made by a minister, especially one of the recycled ones. Not only that but one of the ones on the in/famous list of the 75! God bless this mini’star’, and other wo/men, with lots of implementation.
Alas, implementation with facilitation from who?! Well, majority of them coloured the hall that day, but do they deliver? If such a small cerebration of the blind, lame and deaf children could attract such a host of NGOs with a long list of attachment and praises in self-agrandisement speeches, then I wonder why the ministers and directors are complaining of lack of funding. What did not make my day is the number of NGOs, I mean children NGOs, with fund-trapping and sympathy-begging terms such as ‘save the children’, war child, right to play, and the like. I remember in one of the conferences, there were about 10 ‘Saves the Children’, with each organization having a suffix of a donor country, or country of origin. What beats y/our understanding is why there are more organizations and more street children in the same city. The Media is awashed with news of hundreds of projects in the name of such children, yet the numbers of the street toddlers keep on multiplying, with the number of employees and employers of such children organizations doubling the number of the target group, say, the children themselves! Government of South Sudan, wake up! The organizations have even left the logs in their owl eyes and are drumming for the speck in the eye of the government of 4 billion dollars ‘stolen’ by the government officials. By the way, who audits the NGOs?
God bless South Sudan! God blaze her enemies! God blast their accomplices!
Poems from ‘The Black Christs of Africa’ (by J. Penn de Ngong) on children.
NB: The following poems are very raw. They are not published, but will be published later when this writer gets rich, or when the Ministry of Education (one of my personae spells it ‘Mystery of Eatducation’) thinks there are now writers in South Sudan…! Enjoy.
Childhood and Parenthood
Sometimes when I look at my children I say to myself, “Lillian, you should have stayed a virgin.”
Lillian Carter (1898 – 1983)
U.S. nurse and mother of Jimmy Carter.
The time of the psychological passing over from boyhood to manhood is a movable feast. The legal date fixed on the twenty-first birthday has little or no connection with it. There are men in their teens, and there are boys in their forties.
James Weldon Johnson (1871 – 1938)
U.S. writer, lawyer, and diplomat.
Along This Way
My baby, welcome to this world
My lovely larva
Breath of my breath
Blood of my blood
Skin of my skin
Flesh of my flesh
Bone of my bones
Spirit of my spirit
Soul of my soul
My warm love
My baby dove
My homing baby
Listen to my lullaby.
Well, come to this world,
But I’d rather you didn’t come now
If I myself had known then
I wouldn’t have risked come here
I’d wish to take a transit visa
Well and good that you take a trans-seat visit
Once you swim off your pupal pool
The usual way this world welcomes its visitors
Remember, your toils begin with your toys
And your spoils will feed the soil.
It’s self fooling addressing an un-arrived guest
My child, why linger yonder?
Since you kicked my bottom last morn
The shortest uterine journey in 24 hours,
Why tarry? Please, try to hurry.
Now come, come, cooooome!
Alas! At last, upon your obstructed arrival,
Your welcomer is wielding his surgical sword.
Umm! Let me wait and see the panya route,
The panga route, the mortal port
You prefer—they prepare.
But please, no short cut to heaven!
Doctor, please don’t, don’t slaauugh…
…ter me double!
Oh, thank you miracle God!
And thank you medical god!
A human being slit and split!
A double person crucified at the altar of life!
Just to resurrect three hours later!
A piercing knife through a pushing knight
Through a buzzing night!
An ephemeral death into eternal birth!
For King Solomon says:
The day you die is much better than the day you are born,
But I say:
The day you’re born is more bitter than the day you die.
So if death be such painless and payless,
Why then fear death? I then fear death less.
My baby, welcome to this ward.
Out of that man-made womb,
You’re not a chick to brood in an incubator,
Lest they exchange you with lifeless foreigner
While wise Solomon is long dead to judge.
If you were a baby boy,
Out of this caesarean hatch,
Your name would be Caesar’s,
Delivered by means of scissors.
If I were lamenting in the tongue of Arab,
I would christen you Taab,
Cos you cause me too much suffering.
Still your name should be so, Tab.
In memory of all the tablets I ate to form you,
Again your name should be Tab,
For all that I owe your grandma and grandpa.
In full, Tabitha,
For like her, you’ve been—and shall be—
Raised from tomb to womb.
To emulate immaculate Tabitha-Dorcus,
Of the biblical women who labored to prosperity.
To honour Tabitha Lith,
Who baby-sat me in the labour ward.
To Elizabeth Akuol who escorted me to your dad,
Now you owe more to Rebecca Diing,
Who nursed you in me
From the day you got fertilized
To the day you got materialized.
You owe names to Elizabeth Abiei,
Your mother’s namesake,
Your father’s grandmother’s namesake,
Elizabeth Abiei Wel like Abiei Wal,
Your Godmother who was there
In the ward with every word,
Reporting to Jesus Christ,
Who was born abroad, into crises like you.
You owe your father respect and life,
You owe your mother love and life.
Please live and love till that day,
That date of my genuine death,
So that you bury us, me and him,
So that your very own bury you, you and him.
Or else we wouldn’t bring you to this world.
Welcome to this world, my daughter!
But lest you forget…
To save you,
The tummy of your mother was split,
The blood of your mother was spilt.
Henceforth, she is your Jesusess!
The child’s first year of life is unfortunately still an abyss of mysteries for the psychologist.
Jean Piaget (1896 – 1980)
“The First Year of Life of the Child”
This is my beloved son…
…and they will name him Immanuel,
Which means “God is with us”.
The Bible shows, God chose Samuel,
He pre-crowned him King thus.
When you came, receptionists called you names.
That day, you coincided with world’s mob games:
They call you Ocampo, for he camped in Uganda.
They call you Obama, for he bumped into Ghana.
Alith, my son, your name is Emmanuel,
I, John, your father, had come to prepare you ways.
That you came right was of you very well.
Nothing more – but to surrender you to God who says:
This is my beloved son,
With whom I am pleased.
Now to the wild that you are released,
Please, fight your good fight under the sun.
(Prayerful soliloquy I mumbled to my son, Emmanuel Alith de Ngong, on a Sunday of his birth and on a Sunday of his dedication to God at Kabowa Church (Kampala) 20 Sept. 20, 2009.)
I don’t know who my grandfather was; I am much more concerned to know what his grandson will be.
Abraham Lincoln, US President (1861 – 1865)
Mama, what is this?
When a child is born,
For the mother
A new timetable emerges:
Mama, mama…baba, baba…jaja, jaja!
Mama, what is this?
Baby, it is food.
Mama, what is this?
Baby, it is a spoon.
Mama, what is this?
Baby, it is fire!
Mama, what is this?
My child, it is a pencil.
Mama, what is this?
My child, it is your book.
Mama, what is this?
My child, it is your school uniform.
Mama, what is this?
My Child, it is your wedding cake!
My Child, what is this?
Mama, it is coffee.
My child, why is this?
Mama, don’t be a nuisance, please!
My Child, so my question is nonsense?
Mama, now pack back to the village, ok?
The mother-child relationship is paradoxical and, in a sense, tragic. It requires the most intense love on the mother’s side, yet this very love must help the child grow away from the mother and to become fully independent.
Attributed to Erich Fromm (1900 – 1980)
German-born U.S. psychoanalyst and philosopher.
When I see my eyes,
And count my teeth,
And measure my height,
I am Mama.
When I hear my voice,
And experience my thoughts,
And watch my actions,
I am Mama.
I am Mama
When I build my home,
And marry my spouse,
And produce my children.
I am Mama
When I see her off,
And inherit her stool,
And follow her to hell or heaven.
All I am, or hope to be, I owe it to my angel mother.
USA ‘s 16th President from 1961 – 1965
My old Gold
If not you had to split yourself,
To produce and groom this elf,
Would I have got my new gold?
Hail Mother, my own old gold!
sometimes your voice I mightn’t heed,
But that means not that you’re mine;
Mama, You’re an olden golden mine,
Germinating this modern golden seed!
Your mother is your mother even if clad in toad skin .
Bor Proverb (Mor e mor naa cok cieng e biong ke thieu)
An Open Tomb
Like an abscess
That bulges often,
Likely to burst open
But downloads into success;
Like hollowed tomb,
Her hallowed womb
Is but a life-filled bomb
That explodes into Tombe.
See, the womb
Is an open tomb
Where life is placed,
Misplaced or replaced.
A pregnant woman is an open grave.
The world doesn’t want to hear about the labor pains, they just want to see the baby.
The Sabbath for Mama
Do you know that?
Mummy has only one day,
One and only single day,
Or only one simple say,
One singing, semi day,
Out of all 366 days,
But not to resist
From the routinely hunger quake
That has its epicentre
In the belly valley
Of my cross-legged daddy,
And my hand-folding bros.
Being her only baby daughter,
I sometimes shed tears,
And just wish, just,
I turn ten
To take over
And let mama celebrate her unholy Sabbath.
Why weren’t I twenty, thirty, forty, fifty…
To decode the riddle
Of her subjective responsibilities,
To ask if Baba owns the other 365 and so days?
Then it means,
Mama has only seventy days
To rest and celebrate her freedom,
If – God forbids— she had to die at seventy.
There is this other day, too,
June 16 for us children,
Like March 8 for women,
Like May 13 for mothers,
Unlike Jan. 1 – 31 Dec. for men,
Who claim to be our fathers and brothers.
Tomorrow I’ll ask
My Sunday school teacher
Or the other black man in white
That who assigns the days and duties.
You’ll get the same answer
That my teacher told me last Sunday.
That what, Janet?
That our great, great grand, grandma,
Long, long, long ago,
Made a mistake in the garden…
Stop! I now know,
It’s the politricks of the male politicians.
But which president can fix the days forever?
Any. Even that of our family,
Or of our country,
Or of our universe.
But I think the Lord of Sabbath,
The very God of Sabbaoth,
Knows women’s rights, too, doesn’t he?
I think let’s first grow up,
And go to school,
And become no longer small
To ask and know, but big,
Big enough to know and ask,
And ask where, when, why, what, who, how…
Children aren’t happy with nothing to ignore,
And that’s what parents were created for.
Ogden Nash (1902 – 1971)
Happy Days, “The Parent”
O, Dry Father!
Most of my friends
As well as my fiends
Go back home to see their fathers
And they are all in feathers,
For theirs have not yet met their end.
Unlike me, at the end,
Going to my wild homestead,
In Bor, the genocide hotspot,
Of Jonglei State, the hot pot.
There I see
A valley of Dry Bones,
Void of any newborns.
I see him, already it,
Lying clean and white,
His skull detached,
His soul attached,
Together with theirs,
And them to whom we are heirs,
Lying wide spread,
Drying like wild bread.
Among numerous dry heads,
Is my dad’s, still with beads,
His teeth still intact,
Only for my identity contact.
Needless to ask whose
Orders made him lose
Not only his life but my love,
Who knows not but just to live.
Only him and Him know how,
Who against whom to revenge but not now.
The world dies over and over again, but the skeleton always gets up and walks.
The Vulture of the Future
As a ten-year old messenger of doom
Scrambles for filth mount’s edible content
With but a winged scavenger of boom,
A tan – here odd – passenger with ill intent,
Clicks with precision the lensed owl zoom
On the lad who licks on his hand with discontent
The dried-in oral dehydration salts.
As the solitary minor goes scavenging,
His age-mates go on unfounded avenging,
For his father was once in theirs’ forefront.
Be gone you poor Lazarus, clothed vulture!
They yell. He begs, I’m a vulture of the future.
Then they jeer at him who does not confront
Them with his moral degeneration assaults.
Common looking people are the best in the world: that is the reason the Lord makes so many of them.
Abraham Lincoln, US President (1961 – 1965)
The manky monkey
In a murky morning,
A lanky manky monkey
Tries to grope to the grove,
Alley too manky for two monkeys,
Inhabited by corpses living in copses,
Who subsist on coffees in the coppice.
Solitary, he survives, too solid and stolid
To move with the doves and dine with nine
Out of a hundred of children of his kindred,
The children so infra-agile and fragile to him.
During the war, he’s pushed into the bush.
From his sweet street, he feeds on weeds,
Where he becomes manager of the manger,
To educate the mangy mongrels to manducate
In a jungle life of not education but manducation.
Because fine kids should ne’er mix with manky monkeys,
Void of humanity, the outcasts later become voice of humility.
Whoever will cause one of these little ones who believe in me to stumble, it would be better for him if he was thrown into the sea with a millstone hung around his neck.
I wish I were that Obama’s puppy
First, I was so mad and sad
When they employed a cat
In President Bush’s house,
Where there is no mouse.
Again, I was not happy
As they adopted a puppy
In President Obama’s Palace
Where I have not a little place.
Lo, I really am mad
With my ribs on a mat
And Obama Junior on a mattress,
Where he neither has stress nor distress.
Here, hear, I am helplessly hapless,
Unlike that puppy, harmlessly hopeless.
How I wish I were that Omaha’s blabby baby,
How I wish I were that Obama’s happy puppy!
I work here the whole day, the whole day, Just for 50 Euros, and that exactly is the amount they pay here, for a day care, just to keep a dog! In Africa where I come from, dogs are considered dangerous animals, but here they are part of a family, treated better than African workers.
A Ugandan Immigrant in Europe, Al Jazeera documentary.
When our stepmother
Steps out of our father,
And steps up a sinister campaign,
Driving our father to champagne,
And when she switches to witches,
Pointing that it’s our aunt that bewitches
Into the blank all that she wishes but in vain,
She contracts her witches to extract from our vein
The medicine to soothe her incessant complaint.
In this case, we’re but very inno-saint.
When our neighbour
Fails to get a favour
In our ten-year old sister,
He plots something sinister—
waylays her who is overpowered,
And then he dumps her deflowered!
And then the police case is filed,
Only his name is arrested. But she’s defiled!
Now her future is indelibly stained,
Because she is very inno-saint.
When Tong-Tong militias
Plan their acts, always malicious,
To too early wean us off our schools,
Because they win not even those fools
To support their fake idea of liberation,
We fall prey to their hands for political libation.
Now that our rights are trampled on, we children,
Have to declare a warfare, which is trickily modern.
May the God of Heaven crown every young soul saint,
Because we’re all very inno-saint.
The Juba-Nile Delinquency
The ‘Ghetto Gecko’
As his pet-name goes
Rotates around the Jericho by echo
Like a mongoose feeding on raw mangoes
Singing Him the hymn
To appease Him who might condemn
O Big Three
Let me feel free
I do beseech
In this my lone speech
Pardon me, thy little leech
By this he lives on and on
Hoping one day he becomes a don
Alas, this Draconian law
That even amputates a son-in-law
Knows not that he is a juvenile
Who subsists along the Nile
Or pickpockets on Juba streets
Less aware those shoplifted sweets
Fulfill that ignorance of the law
Is no excuse—but an open offence
That alone risks his wrist on a judge’s saw
This Juba-Nile crime frequency
is due to juvenile delinquency
as a kid on the wind’s wings swings on a see-saw.
They are not juvenile delinquents. These are children who have been taken from homes that were bad for them.
The need for a seed
Whoever hasn’t planned,
does not want to plant
on the onset of rain,
deliberately left vacant
So that he harvests
only the nature’s forests.
Once a mental field
is maternally laid,
so that it must yield,
it needs a seed.
And if left fallow,
then an evil fellow
by means of stealth
stuffs it but with filth,
now a devil’s workshop,
which calls for a bishop.
If this world is to continue,
posterity must have a retinue,
that is why my number 1 need
is nothing but a need for a seed.
Give me four years to teach the children and the seed I have sown will never be uprooted.
Vladimir Ilyich Lenin
Like my dead dad!
They’ve come of age,
Yet , not come of sage;
How come an old man
Hate his new young man!
In the same game,
Hate my damn fame;
Don’t you hurt my lame name.
Out there, it’s a flame of blame!
Father, who adores his day,
And who abhors a child’s say,
Your countdown alarm clock—
‘Tis ticking towards your next flock!
Death is the only democracy
That condones not the old bureaucracy.
In the world of the living or the dead,
Altogether, you’re just like my dead dad.
Like father like sons,
Cloned from the same clown,
Birds of the same feather,
Of the same height,
The same heart,
They are his children.
Sired with Chol in their word and work,
With him on their tobac-coaled teeth,
Him in their alco-holed eyes,
In their sweet show for chow,
Their bitter choler for chores,
They give with Chol’s fingers;
They are his choldren.
One of them got named Magot,
Like his siblings, born to chew,
Begotten to devour – they’re maggots:
To divorce wives,
To devote to wines,
Chol’s choldren – bacholers forever.
Born in the climax of the war,
Raised in the climate of the war,
From the warm blood of the warmonger,
Chol’s children are soldiers,
They are even choldiers,
His identical soldren;
These are real choldren.
Not mine at all,
For I am only a woman,
A whooo, man! A nothing in their clan,
A cheaply sheep-goat-bought child factory,
Whose feminine products are branded upon owner’s will,
And sold without a thank-you to the manufacturing machine.
I have no name among – even after – Chol’s choldren’s children.
Problem children tend to grow up into problem adults and problem adults tend to produce more problem children.
David Farrington (1944 – )
British criminal psychologist.
The Times (London)
Boys of atomic toys
We are a generation
Of no veneration
Begotten and forgotten
Born and has borne
The woes of wars
On our souls and shoulders
As wild child-soldiers
Sold as sole saviours
For freedom from serfdom
We are a generation
Sons of a gun
Only taught songs of a gun
With deadly toys taller than the boys
Who display them live and play with life
Handling grenades like schoolboys’ toys
For the termination of our extermination
In our struggle for self-determination.
Political history is far too criminal and pathological to be a fit subject of study for the young. Children should acquire their heroes and villains from fiction.
W. H. Auden (1907 – 1973)
The Bride Tribe
Ours is a new tribe
Of scribes to describe
Our real fire drive
That makes us strive
Through the cloud of strife
With not our metal but mental knife.
We cherish our pride
Of being the new bride,
A generation born bright
With every tangible right.
Having paid our bloody price
To win and to pin up this noble prize,
We urge our senile tribe
Not to expose us to bribe
Our way of life with a dime.
Hither come our ripe time.
For in our current prime
Must we admit and omit all that is crime,
And commit our youthfulness
Into all that is usefulness.
In order to enjoy our fruitfulness,
The bride tribe needs truthfulness.
Tomorrow comes not in its fullness
Today must we explore and exploit our youthfulness.
Let no man despise thy youth; but be thou an example of the believers, in word, in conduct, in love, in spirit, in faith, in purity.
1 Timothy 4: 12
The Biscuits Recruits
Once you stick like a tick
With no single grain of brain;
Like a donkey after the carrot,
Being not the intelligent parrot,
Is led by a stick to an expedition,
Lo, a price for foolery: perdition!
When our brothers were reduced
To half humans and then induced
To die firing at their own kith and kin,
The wise world would grin at the green sin
Being brewed by our shrewd neighbourhood,
The Judases fooled to abuse their brotherhood.
And the forbidden sin of all is they’re made wild,
Having installed in their skulls the brain of a child,
Holding their vacant heads high on a foreign street,
And they, with Judas’s catch of cash, feel so sweet.
Like a bunch of starved orphans made naïve recruits,
They fall prey on foul play match-fixed with biscuits.
The rests will be availed to you soon as a book, Inshallah!
Footnote: Please, if you have not found any poem for your kid therein, hit the keyboard and request for one. I am ready to include your child’s right right not covered here. However, I believe, they are all taken care of, unless they are not ‘Black Christs’ liek the Sowetans. You will dicover them either here or elsewhere in the “The Black Christs of Africa”.