EBOLA, LOLA!

We are doing enuf, right?

What the fuck happened?

Central Africa!

Yeah right! Just behind mine home!

Zinkisi, did we sin before thee?

Oh, and we can't trust the wards anymore!

No, neither the men with white skin

Who knows the sower of the cursed bean?

I avoid friends and won't even call the sick
"Brother, forget our blood pact please!"
"Kiss not thy wife"

What have you done to us!

I watched a mother abandon her own skull,

For the sake of her surviving brood

Thanks to this fantastically cruel disease,

Turning against us our own compassion, care, and love!

What will happen?

I might die, hell I'll die!

6 billion people infected, 

Nearly as many as the world’s most parasitic swarm.

Stay at home

Watch TV, that's what you've been raised to do.

Don't shake hands

It's okay, you can be mean all you want

You have no gods to pray to

So, of your cents, probably throw in two

And wait for someone else to go fix that mess too!

Damn, I will this curse rain on your land too!

People die,

Even laughing kills,

But this? Thousands of thousands

People who, like us, eat, drink, sleep, and feel joy and fear,

Love and anguish.

Deaths come suddenly and unexpectedly,

Not just solitarily, but along with the extinction of 

Families and the decimation of whole communities!

They are human, and We want to remain human?

We must, care. And grieve - for all humanity.

---------------------

Poem inspired by and partially based on the awesome essay by Stanford Professor of Law,  Hank Greely. 
Thanks Greely for casting light on this ghastly, but undercelebrated plague!

The most horrific and sick art is thanks to the genius mind of artist PriestofTerror 
who indeed knows the dark side of Ebola 
(piece apparently done with Pencil, acrylic and his own blood!)

Language & The Age

The maids inside of my head won't cease to chatter

They talk about the way I panicked this morning

They talk about the rain not arriving yet

They talk about the shows on cable

They talk about the web

They talk not about me

They talk not about my people

They talk not about the historical debt

They talk not about the fading culture

They talk about an upgrade and the battery warning

Da maids nsyd o mine head wn't taste tru FREEdm

Until they start to take in the world via different words

Until a free tongue they foster and master.

Upon a Rock

I walked behind them, 
     Wanting to
            Tap into
                A bit of what wisdom they carried with them.

Strangers in my motherland,
Looking at
     Every Rock,
     Every exposed Earth!
Well, through their strange metallic EyEs, razor
Sharp precision exuding from behind them.

Then I was either illumined or totally dumbed when
One of the younger ones, trained the attention of his peers upon
One particular
     Facet
Of an elaborately weathered rock up 
On a hill, directly before us.

In a voice CloakeD in LEAD-heavy certainty, he spoke thus:
     The Africans,
     Wanted information
     To remain free!
I never slept again.

chwezi prega-ma.g.ick

mother is catholic

devout, with fear of maria

mother is chwezi

an elite of the herb

with remnant recipes

of high chwezi mysteries

with which i was bathed

as she enchanted me with song

as i suckled her breast

in a herb in a herb

a green green herb

is a verb is a verb

a clean clean verb

with a power with a power

a deep deep power

am a god am a god

a real real god

promptly attend prenatal

so the system stays blind

they will pray in the churches and sing white hymns

but there's a truth in the hearts of all mothers black

the will to evolve their sons in might

never speaking to an ear of the craft as a craft

as each expectant girl, fortunate to meet her seers

gets her motherly initiation

every morning every morning

performing rit.u.als of her forest

with the most blessed herbs

that evolve the true spirit across generations

to forever grow close to the likeness of Ruhanga

the true true Ruhanga.

---------------

the lovely natural shot by Nature-16

The 3 Kings of The Bachwezi

It's drumming spirits and ghosts in the darkness outside my shrine
There's a rhythm I can readily distinguish- Ndahura, first King of the Bachwezi
Is returning home from the hunt.

Plant a herb of perfect deconstruction-
Such rigourous work in the alchemy
That an age-old paradigm gets cleansed from my initiates
Upon vibrations of Engoma Za Ruhanga
A bachwezi mutujune - recurse this.

Mulindwa andinzire
Should I seek to demistify the mystery called Chaos,
Or I am now in the abode of Chwezi's 2nd King.
With drums reminiscent of our ancenstors now in rock and gemstone-
Those our cosmic origins, from whom the Element of Earth gains it's essence and power.
Play me the long drum...

Engwara, Endobo, En'mboko!
Enter the Ndebele shamans and mystics-
Adorned in mouth-torturing regalia typical of possessive types
Up that huge elephant approaching us from a distance,
Sits Wamara, Last King of The Bachwezi.

He's a God,
Whose aura is mystery.
The many, they ask man
God dances to the Self.
Those drums of logic and magic -
Vibrate to alter the fabric of all your models.

Let's go night dancing...
On this night of the waxing moon,
I can definitely experience the spirit of a New BaChwezi - NuChwezi.

drums of rit.u.al

the message is subtle - i