I heard the old-old man
Speak of stories of our old ways.
He said, dear son,
Remember to remind the wolrd of your
culture.
The pride of our heritage.
As our shadows struggle to cover
The plains of the mapungubwe,
The shade of my dark skin offers skin care
For the light toned indivuals,
Found along the standard-banks of the
capitol
Boabab central.
Tell them of your pride
Dear sons and daughters of sovenga!
The world has witnessed you climbing and
descending
The backs of crodiles and hyenas.
You were chased,
Changed from the province of the north
To make a home for your sores,
In the front view of the land which gives
birth to
The sun.
My thoughts for your future,
Are not corrupted by the dealings of your
political
Brand of uncles.
I trust that your tomorrow shall come in
Through your international entry doors.
Remind them of your culture.
We heard that queen modjadji was taking
“shawers”
In the limpopo.
Her majesty scratching her burdens on the
backs of hippos
Which would always forget to “tell thomas”
what they saw!! .
I heard that your father moved away to the
www.megaartists.co.za
city many years ago.
Leaving you, to promise your suckiling
“tsonga krall”,
That you will take care of them,
Along with their distant relatives from
across the “nandoni”.
Tell them of your heritage.
There shall be piece in thate.
For your will stems deep from the bold
mountains
In the mageobas.
Your grandfather collected the tears of the
land
And built a dam in tzaneen,
To water the fertile sorrows of the greater
letaba people
Who pronounce articulations borrowed
from uncle sekhukhune.
Bow down and let the story of your old
ways
Be told through the railways which were
never underground.
The weary footsteps which treads this land
Speak only in the night.
The palm trees aligned and treamed by the
hand of god
Still remains the best untold beauties in the
eyes of the mystic owls,
The queens and kings of the night.
Those that rule from the tree tops
Of fig trees and marula branches.
The ones that hold the spirit of africa on
their leaves.
Listen to the chimes of the cradle
When they speak of human kind.
From the hills of modjadji,
To the kloofs of mageoba.
This is the land of my birth
Mar-Apr 2016
Page 6