Y’all that South African, Prophet Alph is a shameless swindler exploiting the faith of my people and he has reached ultra levels of con artistry! I remember jokingly telling someone that at my funeral somebody will point a shaky finger at my casket and yell, “Look, she is fucking getting back to life!” I never…
The Ghost of Valentine
I could make his lithe silhouette, moving across the willowy meadow land. The grass sashayed under the gentle wind and pollen grains floated in the air , anticipating the rendezvous with a female ovule. The radience of his countenance held me in a warm embrace. Like two peas in a pod we latched on to…
Facing My Demons
For three decades a wench adapted migratory characteristics of evading her demons. Mainly by refusing to take notice and intentionally disregarding them. I firmly maintained this idiosyncratic belief despite being contradicted by reality and rationality. There is a sense of false tranquility when you just say fuck this life and go back to bed at…
A Salutation to Oliver Mtukudzi
A great circle of celestial sphere cut throught the heart of our country. The pained wails of a grief stricken people echoed through out the nation. A hooded skeleton griping a scythe hovered over us. Its cold breath a pervasive aroma of death. The allusive detriment of deprivation Dancing to the blues emanating from the…
Citizens of Hell
In the blog The Shitty Teapot Shaped Country, I said Zimbabwe was melting rexin on Satan’s ass, boy was I out of range with that. This country is actually Satan’s ass crack, the sewer of hell. Stop gaping, I said what I said and today is not the day. While I like to maintain some…
The Lucid Dreams of Nostalgia
Sometimes I wonder about my nine month uterine life. The intimate cacoon of the placenta and the aquatic lifestyle in the warm amniotic fluids. The images and sensation of a tangerine aquarium with a musical accompaniment of a pulsating heart. A beautiful nine month purgatory that birthed a series of events mashed up together creating…
The Cold Clutch Of Death
Sunday morning, 12 February 2012 tasted like old moldy cheese laced with fungi that wreaked havoc in my stomach. Horrid. The onset of grief began at 8am with 16 missed calls from my little sister. I woke up in sleep reverie but mostly gripped by the aftermath of consuming copious amounts of colourless volatile flammable…
