Of African Soil

Coarse, thick soil tinted hair,

Born with this quintessential soil caressed skin

Where melanin burns in abundance, from deep within.

Let the song sing, that

I am of African soil.

When my hand touches the earth beneath me

where the blood of our brave warriors still leaves a stain of their courage

So I may walk on it freely,

There let the song of the soil sing, that

I am of African soil.

When I am awoken by my heart’s voracious tendencies

which whispers to me, “Someday we shall belong”

when my heart cries for this home, which often does not see me as its own,

when this Mother country rejects me,

let the saddest of this song sing, that

I am of African soil.

When *uGogo holds my hand,

Her eyes elegiac whenever she speaks of my grandfather,

Let her tell me of their story:

The vivacious vixen and her chiseled empire of a man.

Let her song sing, that

That they are of African soil.

When I cross the border,

From my place of birth,

The *City of Kings.

Returning back home, to the Land Of The Brave.

Let my pride sing, that

I am of African soil

When I sit in a taxi,

With an Oshiwambo taxi driver,

And an Afrikaans woman, and I,

A little Ndebele girl,

Beside a Herero elder, with each strand of his grey hair an adage.

Each of us singing songs of our own unique stories,

Separately, but bonded by our lyrics of peace and unity

Of what we agree is our country,

Oh, let my heart sing, that

I am of African soil

When I sit down, pen and paper in front of me

And try to encapsulate the beauty of this Mother Desert,

In a quandary over how best to describe her,

And this continent she is so graciously planted in.

Cosseting the African people,

The great people of a continent so beautiful and protecting

Like the lioness who turns into

A blood-lust vulture

At any sign of danger towards her cubs.

Let them hear my cry, that

I am of Her

I am of African soil,

Of African strength,

Of Africa.

*uGogo- Grandmother in isiNdebele/isiZulu

*City of Kings- Bulawayo, Zimbabwe

The Amateur’s Guide to Life Falling Apart: A Personal story

The emotional turmoil it took within me to decide whether or not to share this story or not was bizarre, to say the least. For multiple reasons

1. I am rusty. English is a craft that needs constant honing, and frankly I have been slacking in that sector.
2. Consequently I have been extremely uninspired to write about this, despite knowing I “need” to write about this.
3. This has to be the first article that talks directly about my life and my personal trials and tribulations, stripped of fancy language and confusing yet beautiful metaphors (shout out to me, I am a brilliant writer). That in itself is frightening. Mind Of The Writer has always felt safe behind her social persona. It has allowed me to express myself, while still keeping myself. Being an artist often requires you to give your audience all of you. Which sounds romantic, if it did not have the ability to drive you completely insane. Mind Of The Writer completely prevented that. And yet, here I am, bleeding all of me in public. Offering myself to you, naked, You know, like one of your French models.
4. This story is not pretty. It brings me immense pain thinking about it. So understand that writing about it is not cute. At all.

Many of you may or may not know, but my name is Noma. Nomagugu Thembelihle Moyo. So no, Mind Of The Writer is not my government name (I know, it depresses me too.) I am both 19 years and 2 and ¾ years old. I am a writer (queue shocked gasp), particularly of poetry. I write stories I never finish, and articles that I strongly believe the world will read some day. Articles that will change the world. Some day. I am an artist. Which means I am crazy. Crazy enough to dream. To have hope. To invent and create these dreams and hope into beautiful realities.

I am filled with hope. Beautiful hope. A theory as to why I am this way is because of my names. My middle name means “beautiful hope”. And in our culture, we are a reflection of the names we are given. I believe I stand true to this. This hope has carried me through amazing moments in my life. Moments filled with immense pain and challenges. I call them amazing because they make really good stories. And as a writer, I appreciate a really good story.

Now, without going to deep into my past, I would like to tell you that it certainly has not always been easy overcoming the challenges I have had to overcome. Right now, my life is what many would describe as “falling apart.” As in things are falling apart. Like, Chinua Achebe would be inspired to write a sequel (If you got that reference, and you did not read that book in school, let me be the mother of your children). I would like to go as far as saying that personally this has to be the most painful time in my life. And like all painful stories, this one needs a little back story.

I am the daughter of two educators. Brilliant minds, both excellent in their respective departments. My father a mathematician and my mother a History and English literature nerd, I think we can all conclude that my family generally embodies intellect (Yeah I do not know what happened to me either). Needless to say, education was and is pretty important in my family. I grew to adopt that mentality. I actually, for the most part of my life, loved school. I loved learning. Till this day I am an immense seeker of knowledge. But, like any other child, I grew to hate the school system. But that’s an article on its own. I digress. My sisters and I were sent to the very best schools. As foreigners in a foreign country, my father believed the only upper hand we would have in this country in order to succeed was to educate us. For the most part, this worked out well for us. We were receiving quality education, both academically and socially. We were being developed into “fine pupils of society”. My parents sacrificed a lot to make this happen. Including the ‘togetherness’ of our family. This meant to receive the very best education, we had to study in the city, away from both our parents. This was far from easy, but hey, we were somewhat happy. My sisters and I stuck together, and my parents were still active in raising us well, over the phone (shout out to technology). It was bearable. In my final years in high school, my father lost his job. At the time I knew that this would be a hard hit on my family, financially. As well as on my school year. Barely scraping by, I managed to continue going to school with minimum challenges, though they were undoubtedly there. But I had hope things would go back to normal. We are now in grade 12 2017. My final year. An important year in a child’s academic year. Exams were around the corner, final examinations. As a foreigner those examinations scare the shizzle out of you. Dramatic? No. We leave our home countries that we love dearly, to seek a better life. A better future. We leave skeptics, doubters, haters. People waiting for you to fail. To prove themselves right. That you were foolish for thinking it gets better. And you? You need to prove them wrong. And that was pressure. And with the precarious financial situation in my family, I needed to pass. To make them proud. To let them know they did not waste money, ridicule and many years of sacrifice and suffering for nothing. Funny thing is, whenever you think life can’t hit you worse than it already has, it does. Evil does not rest. And in the last weeks of school, the worst thing that can happen to a matric in what is supposed to be the best time of the year (‘40’ days of dressing up and pranks and revenge) happened to me. I was kicked out of school. No, I did not get into any fights (that I was caught for), and no I did not get into any trouble. The culprit? Fees. We were behind on school fees for over 4 months. It was a large debt. I was shattered. I remember being given the letter right after my grade discussed the first dress code for the following day, and our first pranks. I remember the excitement. I remember planning my outfit in my head. I never got to wear it. We were in the middle of revising for the final exams. Those last few days were packed with knowledge I knew I needed. But alas, I was sent home for close to two weeks. I missed every last event, every prank, every dress up, the last few break times. The last secret naps in class. I missed the last few days with people I possibly would never see again. My family. It broke me. But I worked hard. I studied. I woke up every morning when my friends woke up for school, and I’d study at home. I was fueled with anger, but determination. Long story short I passed my final examinations excellently. I was proud. So were my parents. Unfortunately victory was short lived. Money issues caught up with us, and I failed to go to university. Any university. I failed to attend Stellenbosch University, a university I was dying to go to. Where all my friends went to (funny enough most of them did not want to till I made them). I had to stay home when all my friends left the country to receive a tertiary education. I was heartbroken. I remember holding my results, crying for literally 40 seconds (I do not cry much so I count when I do).

Now here is the thing. You should know I am a Christian. Not religious. But immensely and deeply spiritual. This is where I personally believe my “beautiful hope” comes from. I know whenever people bring God into their stories it puts you off. Well, keep reading. You’ve gotten this far. You deserve to know what happens after wasting your time on my boring life.

At that low point in my life, I surrendered my life’s path to God. I was like “Boss it’s looking tough, let’s do things Your way.” And I did just that. I let Him work His way through me. 2018 was completely His year. And I stand proud when I say it was the best year of my life. I worked at St Paul’s College (my old school) as a library assistant. I was being paid very well (the gang was lit guys). I grew as a woman, as an artist, a poet. I took time to polish myself and strengthen myself. I fell deeply and madly in love with myself. I overcame my biggest fears. And more importantly I found God in the darkest time in my life. And grew closer to Him. Him and I became tight. Like, life was beaming. I re-applied for Stellenbosch University for 2019. I was accepted. I was also accepted to study at the University of Capetown. God was flexing hard guys. He was showing off and I was loving it. He was like “I took away and asked you trust me, so I could give you more. Here is your reward”. I was beyond grateful. My father got a job. An impeccable job. One bigger than anything he has ever had in his life. And one that would allow me to study at Stellenbosch University for free.

At this point if you aren’t convinved there’s a God. I don’t know fam.

Things were working. I was and remain blessed.

And then things fell apart. Lol I know.

My father’s work permit had not (and has not) come out. Which meant that he is not yet a registered employee of Stellenbosch University. Which meant I am not yet exempted from paying school fees. Which meant? I had to pay. R60 000. Upfront. For tuition alone.

Okay. Minor setback. But we can fix it! So we decided as a family that we would sell my father’s car to raise tuition. This was not an easy decision. My father is a lover of things, especially his cars. But we knew it was needed. Here, is where things really fell apart. And broke us in the process.

For about two weeks after I was scheduled to be at the university, that car had not been sold. The next part is even crazier. For almost every day since then, we would find an interested buyer. The buyer would love the car, and the deal would be set, the car would be handed over the next morning with the cash, and I would fly straight to Cape Town and register at Stellenbosch. The outcome? Morning would come, and the buyer would vanish. Phone calls go unanswered, some off, and some even blocked. And we would be back to square one. Stuck at home, with a car, and no money for tuition. This happened for two weeks straight. I cannot make this up. And each passing day, we broke even more. And here I am. Sitting here, at home in my room, and nothing has changed.

Now do not get me wrong. This story is not to gain pity. I hate pity. In fact I hate writing this. Being this vulnerable. Sharing my story with people who may or may not care. This story is also not to shut down the existence of God. But the opposite. I recently declared on all my social media platforms including my #speakoutmovement community that I would use this era, this time in my life, as the most public platform to declare the existence of God. Why? Because I have never been more broken and yet so healed in my entire life. I want you to know this has been hell. I’ve cried harder than I have in my entire life. And you may say this isn’t even that bad. People go through worse. That’s true. But I am of flesh. And I feel pain. But I am here, despite my tribulation. To dare say this story will have a happy ending. I’ve learnt in this time, that sometimes the hardest challenges make for the best testimonies. I’ve also learnt that although people go through worse, I know millions of people would not cope with what I have gone through. And no don’t give me that “Noma is so strong” nonsense. I am not. My strength comes entirely from God. The same God who was there when my dad lost his job. The same God who took me out of school to bring me back in, bigger and better. Who helped me pass so well. Who gave me a job that helped keep my house running. The same God who gave me amazing friends when he took mine away to fulfill His purpose for them. The same God who got me accepted to two major universities, when I wasn’t even accepted to one. The same God who SHOWS up. He came through then, and I am laying everything I am and everything I am going through to tell you He will SHOW up again. I could have waited after my blessing arrived to write this. But then you would say it was a coincidence. So God told me “write it now, and let’s show them who I be.” God finna flex once more, and I am here for it. So here I am. In an impossible time in my life declaring I will make it. Declaring God will answer my prayer. And it is going to be big. And then you will know His name is the Lord. I am not upset. I am beyond happy. I am smiling. Guys I am glowing, I look great. And I am at peace. My life? It’s falling apart. But God has me together. I am patient. Because I know this is going to be big.

To anyone going through a hard time. I know you have been waiting. I know it gets dark. And sometimes you really question why God is letting this happen. Just remember, your obstacle is an opportunity. To bring Him praise, and to bring you more than your heart desired. Wait on it. And remember Romans 12:12 “Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation and be constant in prayer. When this passes, I will be writing an article about HOW He flexed and answered my prayer. So wait for that update.

May love and light find you.

Mind Of The Writer (Noma)

Who Are You Without Him?

 

 

The first time I had to ask myself this question.

I was heartbroken.

I looked at myself, in the mirror of heart,

Took a deep breath,

stilled the universe around me and silenced

the roar of the tides in my heart

and asked my elders permission to speak.

My mind was the first to allow this

Sweet girl,

Who are you without him?

The funny thing is I did not even know who ‘he’ was.

Which love was worthy enough to bring about this burning question?

And my God,

wasn’t that the first answer?

My heart was never mine to call my own.
I offered her to men,

as a sacrifice instead of a gift.

She became the pass around at parties,

a joke I was always willing to share

and they had no problems laughing.

I gave my heart away to the highest bidder.

In all honesty,

anywhere was safer than me.

So I ask myself,

who am I without him?

I am strong.

Because I’ve had to be…because taught me.

Because my heart was his target practice and he taught me how best to cover my wounds.

Till this day it scares me how I’ve become a master at telling myself the scars he left me don’t exist.

I almost believe myself.

Almost.

I am nurturing,

because I’ve had to be,

because he taught me

I’ve become the greatest heart paramedic

but I’ve never learnt how to save my own.

I wrote down his heart’s desires on my To Do List,

scribbled his cries into poetry so you’d know even when your heart breaks your pieces are still my favorite work of art.

Call it a masterpiece.

I’ve memorized your heartbreak as the motivation to my

“How to repair something that has been broken.” tutorial

Yet every time I think of tending to the stitches you left,

I always seem to forget.

I learnt the sound of your footsteps.

It becomes really easy to memorize the sound of you walking away,

when you’ve left so many times.

So I ask myself,

Who am I without you?

What is my poetry without you?

They say sad poems are the best,

I guess I have to thank you for making mine so amazing.

Truly my writing has always belonged to you.

Mama always taught me to label everything so everyone knows who it belongs to.

Funny how I have always been convinced if I died,

and they did an autopsy on my heart,

they would not believe it was mine with your fingerprints all over it.

Darling,

who am I without you?

When  you made me,

for you

and left me?

Who are without him,

when all has been said and done,

and its just you

and your sweet sweet heart,

and the stars mourning his absence,

and the universe is silent,

and your heart is fighting its own tsunami,

and even the elders no longer wish to speak.

My love,

who are we, without these men

we’ve taught ourselves to love,

before loving ourselves?

I am Tired

I am tired.

Feel me?

I am tired of keeping track of how many fucks I have to give.

I am tired of the day long injustices,

and how the scent of fear and paranoia

lingers in the air.

How it suffocates us,

sitting like a toxic blanket in our chests,

but everyone pretends not to smell it.

I am tired.

I am tired of always looking behind me,

tired of worrying that perhaps today the shadow lurking behind me

isn’t mine.

And that this time the next body to pay the soil beneath it charges taxes,

and maybe my body is the next fine.

Tired,

of watching people on the streets.

Watching how they constantly stare at the sun, picking up their pace,

because they know when the sun sets,

the evil rises.

I am tired of watching children squirming uncomfortably

under their mothers hands,

and watching their mothers hold on tighter in irritation,

in fear.

Maybe both.

So tell me, when we teach our children about the monsters under their beds,

what do we say about the demons roaming the streets?

Starving for the lives of our children.

Taking our babies,

and selfishly leaving us with nothing

but memories of their once full lives.

I am tired of looking at street kids, in agony.

And wondering,

“If a street kid gets kidnapped, and no one is around to see it

would we even give a fuck?”

I am tired

Relate?

I am tired of people.

I am tired of people.

I am tired of people.

I am tired of repeating the same cycle with people,

Talking in circles but never getting the story straight.

Relate?

But I have learnt a lot

You talk about education,

No one will teach you more lessons than a man with a PhD in ignorance.

A doctrate in closed mindedness,

Philosopher in arrogance.

Listen,

People will hurt you,

people will fire at your heart and I swear on God’s love

people never miss.

The human heart was taught to attack,

to defend,

to offend,

just to make sure the living corpse they make out of you doesn’t get stupid ideas

Like, fighting back?

You fear evil,

yet refuse to stare the devil in you in the eye.

People want change,

as long as it allows them to blame others.

People want change,

but don’t want discomfort.

People want change,

but people never want to change.

I am tired of living in a world of judgement.

Tired of people who think they are better than me

because of the color of their skin,

because of their soil,

or the language they speak.

Like God will hear your prayers better in English.

Judge me for the darkness of my skin,

but your blood isn’t lighter than mine.

And honey, haven’t they told you black goes with everything?

I am tired of living in a world,

Where what we say isn’t judged by its opinions

but by the titles of Instagram posts.

Tired of the fact I could not even write the previous line

without worrying I am throwing shade.

Tired that I forgot my poetry is the one time I do not have to care what you think of me,

Tired of living in a world where my opinion has to be palatable to you,

Sweeter,

easier to digest.

Don’t know why I am surprised,

You fell in love with your WCW because her hips were wider than her lies ,

Relate?

I am tired of wondering if Mandela won his battles,

because he downplayed racism,

as a minor disagreement between races.

The truth never cared about your feelings.

Maybe I don’t want to give a fuck,

Maybe I don’t want to consider your feelings.

Because when they killed Cheryl, no one asked her

“Baby girl, how do you feel?”

But don’t mind me,

I’m just tired.

Tired of smiling, trying to please the world,

trying to please him,

trying to silence the insecurities,

tired of the fact none of us say what we really feel.

Tired of writing this long poem.

Or maybe,

I am tired of keeping track of how many fucks I had to give.

Relate?

Sick and Tired by Saisona

My Coming Home Poem Part II

I’ve been a living corpse,

inside a body that has the decency to stay alive for everyone else.

I’ve numbed the pain so much,

silenced my cries

that my tears no longer recognize my face.

I’ve hung up my insecurities in the exhibition of my heart

and laid them out for all of you to see.

So even in my battle scars,

and my heart’s stretchmarks,

you’d all still see a master piece.

I’ve offered my love,

dripping in honey,

coated in vulnerability,

with a strong center of loyalty.

Man I hope I give them diabetes.

They call me the Winter Empress,

but it’s been a while since I’ve seen anything worth worshiping.

I was once a goddess,

but even I stopped being a believer.

I’ve taken long baths, sitting in my luke-warm sin,

drenched in my own insecurities,

that even holy water wouldn’t be able to wash away.

And as I lay there, in the tub of my misery.

Even when the water leaves,

I still carry the remnants of the pain with me.

I’m tired.

Tired of the hurt,

tired of the pain,

tired of running out of sleep

and having the ache in my chest burn exactly the same.

I am the kind of tired sleep cannot fix.

I’ve built homes in people who have gone out of their way to make me feel like an unwelcome visitor.

I’ve been hurt by boys,

who promised me the world,

yet did not do a damn thing to be in it.

I’ve been stabbed,

by friends who swear they know you,

yet the only poem they will ever read of yours is your eulogy.

But I have learnt a lot.

I have learnt that everything about me is art.

My brain spits poetry that sounds like your heartbeat the first time you fell in love.

Pure,

untainted,

with so much to offer,

and never expecting anything in return.

And so let them know I am coming home.

Shout out it to the mountains that carried me.

And shout out to me for carrying those mountains.

I am coming home.

To myself.

Me.

Selfish lover of self.

Me who will kiss my wounds, and stitch them with God’s promises.

Me,

who will throw a feast, at the return of a lost Empress,

who didn’t even know she ever wanted to be found.

Open the curtains, dust the windows, lay out a carpet.

My,

what a lovely girl.

Lay out the sunflowers,

petal by petal,

with joyful song,

and the escort of God Himself,

let them know,

I am coming home.

Letter To The African Woman

 

African Woman.

You are the mother my heart first called “Home.”

you are the first woman who taught me a woman fights with weapons greater than guns.

You taught me I was destruction in a dress before they even taught me the alphabet

You are the mother who calms my tempests with the whisper of my name.

African Woman.

You are the grandmother who sang songs that sounded like magic to me.

Far better than the fairy tales our teachers in the city tried forcing into me.

You are the wise woman who has eyes so pale,

I wondered if the beauty from them was fading, and you told me

‘*Nana, my eyes stopped searching for beauty the moment you were born.”

You are the woman who taught me oceans are soft, but they have the power to bring royal ships to humble ruins.

Just like we do.

African Woman.

You are the sister who taught me boys will break my heart

but the only person who has the control to whether my heart heals or shatters is the goddess in the mirror.

You are the sister who taught me my body belongs to me

The one who taught me to remember my body is a home, and gorgeous poetry

not a motel pretty boys dump their frustrations all over.

She taught me when those boys leave, plant pretty flowers where they hurt you.

African Woman.

You are the girlfriend who writes love songs with her eyes,

who is gold from her brain to her thighs

who was born to mesmerize.

You are the girlfriend who told the stars all about that boy

and they could not stop falling ever since

The girlfriend who breathes for you just in case you forget to

who brings the universe and all its galaxies to your feet, even when you won’t give her the time of day.

She is an Empress,

even when you made her feel worthless.

African Woman.

She is above majestic intelligence

she has the secrets of this world

But know they are not safe in the hands of men

who look at beautiful sunrises

and swear at the skies for being so blinding.

She is beautiful intelligence,

the worlds greatest treasure.

She starts wars and ends them,

makes grown men cry,

turns seeds into fruits,

no

turns seeds into gardens

she is a summer’s garden.

But she can be cold.

Did you not hear, how they all freeze in her presence?

Well, that’s another story.