No Land’s Man – Part I

…you can call us the new colored’s

We exist in a time between times

A place between places

A land between lands

A being in-between!

A land undefined by a nature of its own.

A land without tradition,

Without history,

Without a story to tell or a song of remembrance!

A game,

For pica ninnies to play

A disgrace to never leave the memories of its people

A legend,

Or a distress to spark that desired flame of revolution.

We are that taste of one’s blood staining his teeth

That spit of disgust, not at our blood but at he who draws of our people’s

Breath

We are mere characters between characters

Within a character

Out of character

A people between Gods

And

God forsaken

And thus

Inhuman

Hahaha!

In human,

A tribe or race or beginning on its own

Without a word to us

Just a realization

That we are a new beginning,

A remade concept of existence

A new conscience maybe

Only to suit our convenience!

 A part of him felt locked up. That sane part of him felt imprisoned, deprived of its freedom. He struggled to determine his dreams from his reality. He no longer knew his eyes, closed from when they were not. The sun was at half mast and to him, another true hero was gone.

“…Flags do not tell of true heroes

Neither does acres of land or the propaganda of media houses

Only that burning eye of God does

And that voice in the silence of the voiceless…”

 

The evening was silent with a golden glow over the trees to his west. Silhouettes of startled wings flapped noisily into the sky as his voice resonated into nothingness. The river brought a breeze with it, cold at this time as a valley gets with the retarding warmth of the sun. The cold air rubbed goose pimples onto his skin and hardened his nipples. A bus roared across the bridge, from the north towards the south; the sound agile and heavy, carrying many promises, perhaps for those on board, yet for him, definitely nothing. Under the bridge, he crouched near his little fire, the soles of his feet comfortable in the feel of the cool river soil.

Feeling the hairs on his naked limbs sway and breathe to the cool evening breeze, searching above his knees onto his thigh, over the filth and tear that had become his shorts, a pair of trousers once, now the only border between him and the naked world. His t-shirt read:

“How is it freedom if one is given choices?”

The tee shirt which was deep black once, now burnt out toward this dusty brown, torn at the shoulders and around the belly button with the word “choices?” split in two. The only thing still intact was his leather jacket, though dirt habitat-ed it, so it reeked of dirt. Dirt reeked from him as well, in this memory of the dump sites that had become certain parts of his once beautiful township.

He remembered the bus and where it was heading. He thought of the hopes of the people on it; about that new way of life in their imagination across that border and the better standards of living there. There was hope of easily finding a rewarding job and the plan to send money back home as frequent as rent was due. Also sending groceries, furniture, appliances, clothing, to change the living conditions and of course for prestige. The idea of visiting during the Christmas and Easter holidays for the neighbors eyes and their envy yet, that very someone was not even across the border, sat in the bus, dreaming. It was that simple.

As he thought this through, his heart sank with the realization that this very person was him; once upon a bus ride, a hope and a shattered dream ago. The warmth of the fire sank with his heart into the palm of his hands. The noise of the traffic passing across the bridge no longer startled him regardless of how frequent it came or how noisy it became. This was quickly becoming home for him and this didn’t bother him at all. If anything it made him glad. He made himself comfortable among the papers and plastics and leaves that were his sleeping place, an arm’s length from the fire. He looked up at the stars and closed his eyes momentarily. He began to read the words in the stars as they spelt themselves out like a memory.

 

Alexander, May 16 2008

The fact that, no matter how well my Zulu had come along, people still recognized that I was from across the border, worried me the most. I checked by holding the door knob and shaking the entire door as if in an attempt to tear it down, if my door lock was secure; if the key was turned all the way! And then I hoped, just like when I was on that bus. Just like a stranger attempting to make home out of strange lands. Just like nature that leads us to believe all will be well, when we genuinely know that nothing will be. Just like that hope that some unexpected entity will intervene and make good out of this bad situation. Just like this misplaced sense called faith. I could hear them from all directions which meant I was trapped within Alex and my only solace was my hope. This feeling of uselessness disgusted me. A frustration toward oneself ran through my bones in this cold, deathly air and I began to shiver.

“Hope?” I hoped that the law would intervene. I hoped that my accent would not sell me short though I knew deep down that these were only wishes! “Faith”

I turned off all appliances, the single light bulb hanging from the zinc roof of this room and sat on the bed, silent, waiting. The marching and the chanting grew nearer. The singing grew louder and at some point it began to sound like a war cry. I could hear the victims’ bitter cries, as audibly as the pounding drums that had become the beating of my heart. Someone’s property was being smashed and destroyed, their makeshift aboard being burnt down and their being, brutally violated for their identity. God knows how far the violation went; brutalization, rape maybe or even death. The shouting, screaming, banging as picks and axes, metal rods and potable logs crashed down on corrugated zinc, wood, glass, as doors were knocked down, windows shattered and makeshift dwellings demolished. Screams resonated into the night air and the scampering of people outside was as audible as rats would be in a dark, empty room. I decided to kneel down and pray though it felt stupid, due to the very fact that it never occurred to me to do so at any other time until now, the eleventh hour. The 11 P.M. alarm rang on the wall clock giving me the feeling that this was a countdown to some unavoidable end. It’s melody, melancholic, somewhat a dirge as it slowed down in a discord like progression. A part of me died along with the batteries of the time piece, cutting the melody before its end.

“Any moment now” my untimely sense of humor suggested wryly. I closed my eyes and instead of praying, I swallowed deeply the dry nothing that was in my throat. I accepted my fate and went deaf to all else except for the drums of war that had become my heart. Tears formed in my eyes and I closed them tighter as I heard them outside my door. Their Zulu was strong. It was like a strong smell in the air mixed with their anger and the choking smoke from burning things, the smell of blood mixed with dust and the wailing and crying of their victims. I felt sick for a moment and swallowed again.

“They are here”, this sense of fear suggested. A loud crash and bits of shattered glass from my window panes flew all over the room, some hitting me in the face and the door flung open in a slow motion that, for a moment, I was glad time was about to stop. The open door let in cold air from outside along with the cold-hearted wielders of anger and hate, weapons and insults. I closed my eyes and hoped I was praying. “Ye wena m’kwerekwere! Awusukume!” the voice boomed in an intimidating manner. They didn’t even run any tests by me like I heard they did. No questions about naming little fingers or elbows. I felt my world crumble. I knew the answers but somehow that didn’t matter to them. A music in my mind played tears from my tightly closed eyes as I felt hands grab me by my upper arms and drag me outside!

(To be continued…)

(By: Tswarelo Mothobe from our partner Kwantuthu Arts Mag)