lost love

From the depths of my heart to the very last inch of hope I will fight till the end. We walked slowly to the graveyard; her tears fell from her face as she lay to rest the only man she had loved. We all cried, I cried but she cried the most. The man was my father. Dust to dust ashes to ashes all was done we went back to our homes heads and shoulders down but still we had to live our lives.

 Two years she mourned my father on the third I found the man of my dreams.  Dreams do come true I said to myself. Love was in the air my heart had been stolen, I hid his heart too far from the world so that no woman can find it. Our love grew, days became weeks, weeks became months and months drew closer to us being joined together in holy matrimony. 

On the eve of the wedding a woman came to me by night. She spoke in a low tone and decided not to be known. She told me everything; everything that I myself believed was true. 'My mother, my hope all had been deferred and my heart is sick. Is it true?' She said yes. No man can hide from his sin, no matter what he does he sin will find him. 

The curse of my mother had come upon me. The man we buried three years ago was not my father, the man I fell in love with is my brother.

written by Hawulethu Patrice Dube

a saxjaz7 production

all rights reserved.

Follow me @hawulethu

there was never a thin line.....Part1

After two days of waiting and mourning once again that my father did not win his lottery bet again, the winner was announced. It was Mr Richard Growler from Houghton. Yes, Houghton, You know Houghton that suburb you pass before entering Yeoville.   Where people that can afford to play golf and fly to Paris for holiday three times a year live. On top of the millions that Growler had he added another 25million. A lot of questions ran in my head, how could someone already rich win the lottery? Why not a poor guy from Soweto or a blind beggar from Vosloo? I am pretty sure the long lotto queues are found in the Township but it’s the rich that win. I thought of writing a letter to the President asking him to consider introducing the BEE (Black Economic Empowerment) system when betting the lotto. But I was pretty sure that he would fail me considering the fact that the GUPTAS are not BLACK.

There is no justice in this world, we claim to fight for equal rights but in truth none of those are equal. We give gays and lesbians rights but every year they still complain and march for other rights. Women get empowered but are raped and abused every second. We vote for a government and in turn it starves the people like ZANU PF.

I was sitting one day at my home, analyzing the life of my neighbour. My father was not a rich man; we only had one meal a day and had to visit friends in between just to make it through to the evening meal.  We tried growing fruits in our yard but against nature and the gods of the earth all the trees died.  My mother was a very kind woman, though we had little she was willing to share with the whole community. However on the contrary, my neighbour was the exact opposite of my peeps. He was a rich man (which I do not care about) he had enough food and money to take his kids to good schools (which I do not mind because I managed to pass regardless of the nature of the institute I was in). Only one thing disturbed me, and I still ask God this question. How come my neighbour’s yard had a big mango tree that always gave fruits in its season? Honestly those kids did not need a mango tree. They had four meals a day not counting snacks in between.  The mango tree would produce fruits and no one would eat them. Remember this family was rich and not willing to share. The moral of the story is, good things come to bad people while bad things always happen to good people.

So after reading this should we blame Vavi for having sex in his office with a married female colleague? I wonder. There was never a thin line line between the rich and poor, it was an ocean apart.                                                          

                                                                                                                                  To be cont.....

Written by Hawulethu Patrice Dube

a saxjaz7 production

all rights reserved

follow me @hawulethu

email: saxjaz7@yahoo.co.uk

Secret life of my Father 'the reunion'

 A year ago i wrote an article on my blog called the ''secret life of my father'', hoping that i will be able to re unite with my long lost family. Before my father met my mother and decide to settle with her, there was a life he lived and a family he made, whom with all my heart i longed to meet and love. After years of fruitless searching i received an email.

Dear Hawulethu,

I am sorry to learn about your father. I found your article on a blog
and it just made me cry thinking about what was and what could have been.
I think I am the woman whose letter you found among your father's things
and the half-brother you met is my son Themba.
  The last time we saw your father was in January 2003. I will be
traveling to the UK sometime next week {around June 6} and I will try to
contact you.
Actually you have another brother and sister in Botswana...I have only
ever met the girl but that was years ago.

Wishing you all the best.
Chatiwa Lydia Manyepedza-Cotter

Below is the first article.

I was going through my father's books one night when i found a letter.It was a letter written to my father by a woman.There were no secret to hide now my father was late. I slowly read the letter with curiosity wanting to know who my father was. After i had finished reading the letter, i was left with more questions than answers. I wished i had found this letter when he was still alive.

Around 1976 my father was in exile in Botswana. During his span in exile he met a Tswana woman. Judging by the beauty of my mother i would love to believe she was beautiful too. They became friends later on made love and had a son. A few months after the birth of my brother my father left them. He never came back. He did not write or phone them. He closed that chapter.
24 years after my father left Botswana i met my half  brother for the first time.My father was still alive then and i had not found the letter. I was too young to ask question all i did was to hug my brother and go tell my friends i have a brother from Botswana. It is not a mystery how my half brother found his father. When my father left Botswana, the only thing he left my brother was a book (forgot the title of the book). Written in that book was a message from father to son  and an address of where my father used to stay. Later on when my brother was grown up,he began a quest to look for his father. The only clue that he had besides blood running in his veins was an address to a foreign country he had never been to.He took a bus to Zimbabwe and with all forces behind him he found the house and my father.

My brother came again for the second time and he never came back again to see his father.A few years later my father passed on. We lost contacts and failed to notify him about the death of his father.

While i was reading the letter from my brother's mother to my father my heart melted and i almost cried.
she wrote (not in her words but summarized)

Dear Cecil

I am glad that i am writing this letter to you. I hope you are fine. I had you are married and have children. I am married too and i have  two children now. I am now living in America, my husband got a job there so we moved. Cecil, you came into my life and i allowed you in. We brought life into this world together and it was  wonderful. However you left us without saying goodbye. You never came back neither did you write to us. We waited for you hoping that you will come back but you never did. How did you want me to answer our son when he asks where his father is? I lived every night to think what wrong i did to you that made you leave.If i had known the reason for you leaving at least i would hold on to that. However i do not know.I am sorry for the pain i caused you yet i did not know. I am sorry if i did not love you much, at least if you had spoken i would have tried more. My heart still bleeds and i still feel the pain. Yes i did find love but i lost you.
I have found room to forgive you however, there was no space to forget. I wish you all the best in your life


Rachel.


My father never replied, if he did, maybe he wrote the wrong address.I do not know why, maybe it is because he loved my mother or  he loved  Rachel more. Only he can answer that but all we left with are just diaries and letters.

In memory of my Father Cecil Siso Charles Lwanga Dengela Dube 1947-2005


written by Hawulethu Patrice Dube
 a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved

@hawulethu

Heita daaaaaaaaaaar!

''Mintirho ya vulavula. Yita vula vula mindzuko. Sharp-sharp. Heita daaaaaaaaar!!'' That is how Mr Morning Live Vuyo Mbuli ended an informative, patriotic and mesmerizing Morning News broadcast. Morning Live will never be the same again you shall forever be missed, Vuyo we love you. Born on the 14th of May 1967, Vuyo made his TV debut in 1993 as a continuity presenter on SABC3 and went on to be signed as one of the founding anchors of Morning Live when the show premiered on 1 November, 1999.He started his radio career on SAfm in 1995 and remained with Morning Live until his death on 18 May 2013.He died after collapsing at the Free State Stadium in Bloemfontein where he was watching a Super Rugby match between the Cheetahs and the Reds. He was rushed to hospital where he later died.He celebrated his 46th birthday on air on 14 May 2013, a birthday he shared with his daughter. Once again Mr Morning Live you shall forever be missed.

Well, just like every South African and African i too woke up to the voice of Vuyo. A very creative and intelligent Sir with very good communication skills that always kept us glued to our TVs every morning. Vuyo changed the face of media particularly on that of anchoring. His trade mark introductory statements, and conclusions, his relationship with the crew behind the scenes and his love for the job was well translated and transmitted to our homes every day. Though some of us never had a personal relationship with the man we through listening to him every morning built a relationship not only with the news but with the man himself. Later on to be joined by Leanne Manas the two potrayed a perfect picture of what the rainbow nation should look like. I guess his good in front of the camera makes us to over look the downs in his personal life.
For the last time we say "libumbene ihora le skhombisa" Mintirho ya vulavula. Yita vula vula mindzuko. Sharp-sharp. Heita daaaaaaaaar!!''

In memory of Vuyo Mbuli 1967-2013  '' it's not what you say, It's what you do!''

written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved

@hawulethu

Walls with eyes....

 On the walls of Johannesburg  messages are encrypted. Some speak of a song while some reflect the present. Wall Graffiti is a popular means of how artist express themselves either to raise an awareness, share an inspired thought to the world or make a living out of it commercially.

 ''Women lie Men lie but graffiti tells the truth''










 Two breast, two kids and two men in her life she was  proud and she lived a shameless life. I met her once and her name is Sofia.

The eyes of Joburg one would call them, i would further call them the eyes that speak. In pursuit and in love of art Two by Two studios in Newtown will be hosting a graffiti exhibition on the 16th of May @ 41 Gwigwi Mrwebi street Newtown.

Pictures by @hawulethu

written by Hawulethu Patrice Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved

I saw a Zulu this morning...

''It was at seven in the morning when i saw this big black gentleman walk outside Mrs Grobler's house. He wore a black trouser, a white shirt which he folded over his arms and  he carried a back pack that looked heavy. I knew that moment that Mrs Grobler was in trouble. So immediately i rushed into the house to call the police. When i got back again to check the gentleman had left, when the police came it was too late. Oh God i feel sorry for Mrs Grobler she lived a sad lonely life now she is dead". Those were the words of eighty five year old Mrs Muller who was the only witness to testify to the murder of Allen Grobler a widow who was found dead in her home two hours ago. People all over the small town of Bloomberg had gathered around the deceased's property to catch a glimpse of what was happening. Her body was lying on the floor, she had been stabbed several times before her death. The freshness of her blood and a plate of scrambled eggs was evidence that the murder had occurred the exact time being mentioned by the witness. ''I saw the gentleman'' cried Mrs Muller. ''He was Zulu and big'' she said.

The place was now surrounded by sniffer dogs and a helicopter patrolling the town. Near by the town was a shanty town with lots of black people working in the mines and yes most of the man were big and Zulu. About five suspects had been held and were in custody. It was up to Mrs Muller to go and identify the black Zulu she saw in the morning. She had dressed up already and about to get into the police van when a lady screamed from a distance,"stop'' . ''Where are you taking her?' she asked. ''Sorry lady'' spoke the inspector, ''who are you and what relations do you have with Mrs Muller or the deceased?''. This old lady here is my mother and what deceased?'' she asked surprisingly. ''Your mother here is about to be the town's new hero, she is a witness to a murder that occurred two hours ago right here'' pointing at Mrs Grobler 's home.''Your mother claims..'' she intervenes the inspector before he had finished. '' With all due respect Mr Inspector, my mother has been blind for twenty five years. She has never seen the sun nor the color of her nose. I know what she told you. She said she saw a Zulu outside, big wearing  black pants, white shirt folded and heavy back pack. Yes, she has been singing that hymn since she got involved in an accident that left her husband dead.  I am sorry Mr Inspector for my mom to have wasted your time.

stories by the humming bird

written by Hawulethu Patrice Dube

a saxjaz7 production

all rights reserved

follow me on @hawulethu

and please like this page https://www.facebook.com/LoveInTheTimeOfXenophobia

Half a bucket of love.....

For thirty two years Maria Burgess lived with her husband Thomas Burgess a very rich man. Maria met Thomas thirty five years ago in a hotel where she worked in as a housekeeper. She was only twenty by then and in love with Alfred Jerkins Jr. Unlike Thomas, Alfred did not have a lot of wealth none the less Maria loved Alfred.On the 3rd of November 1845 Alfred got a job in the city and left he never wrote or came back again.Two years later Maria married Thomas.
It was on the eve of the Christmas of  1878 that Maria received news that Thomas had died.Her heart sank she was in pain she wished she had loved Thomas more. A year after Thomas's death while Maria was mourning, Alfred came back from the city. The love of her life had come back to life. All along she knew she had not given Thomas her whole heart, she lied to have loved him in the past thirty years.
A month later Alfred proposed to Maria who in turn was to reply through written later as per custom if one was a widow. After thirty two years in the city Alfred had managed to transform himself to a powerful man very wealth and respected, by no means he knew he still possessed a special place in Maria's heart.
After weeks of consideration and thought Maria replied to the marriage proposal.

My Dearest Alfred

With great joy and happiness i was glad to see you once again after thirty two years. You made me feel young again. You took me back into my first love, my first joy and of course my first kiss. I was sitting alone last night and i began to think of the passion we had when we were young. I remember very well the first night i slept outside my home , how early the following morning you carried me into my bedroom window. Later on today i met William you remember him?The old man that caught us making love for the first time in his corn field, yeah he is still alive. I would agree as a widow though not proud of it you the only man whom i fully gave my heart to.I never fully gave my husband Thomas my whole heart because often i hope that you would come back. I gave Thomas half a bucket of love which he took grateful with both hands and turned that into a field of happiness in my life while you took the whole bucket and disappeared. Yes we might have had our share of happiness when we were young but that was then. Now am a grown up woman i have tested love i have not loved and i have seen what love is. Go to the city again,come back after thirty two years maybe i will say yes to your proposal, for now i have given the last half bucket of love to my husband Thomas

Your friend Maria

love letters from Romeo.

written by Hawulethu Patrice Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved

follow me @hawulethu
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