Black was our motto
Black was all we wanted
Black was motto
Black was all we lived for
carrying placards and banners we marched the streets,
our voices were so loud,our hearts determined
our eyes only saw one colour
black
Black was our motto
Black was all we wanted
Black was motto
Black was all we lived for
We threw stones,burnt tyers ,closed shops
and carried guns.
blood was shed,lives were lost but we never saw tears till sunset.
boys became men,girls became mothers and our fathers became the dust
till now we never saw them.
we fought with our hearts and we were united as one.
we all had one song in our souls..
Black was our motto
Black was all we wanted
Black was motto
Black was all we lived for
By the morning of the 18th all was well
old ladies brewed the beer while old man set and reminisced the past days,,
finally the young man could marry and the virgin would sing at last
life was good when we had the time in our hands..
the streets were cleared and the guns lowered
at last we could see our face in the waters..
Black was our motto
Black was all we wanted
Black was motto
Black was all we lived for
You remember the song we sang, Sophia town the mother of one..
once again we sing the song.
the country of our skull,the mother of our land.
the clay we once fought for and died.
today we run away from.
the land we vowed for and made sacrifices while singing songs of freedom
today we sing songs of migration
she used to be the lovely virgin today she is a nagging wife
we wanted black
we wanted no colour
we found black we just had no choice
the man i saved from the depth of hell is now my enemy
you still remember the song we used to sing...
Black was our motto
Black was all we wanted
Black was motto
Black was all we lived for
Sister to poem sophia town .The best way of expressing whats in the heart of a man is through poetry. Hope you loved it.Thank you for reading.
written by Hawulethu Patrice Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved
follow me on twitter @hawulethu
Friday 29 July 2011
Wednesday 27 July 2011
HAIKU POEMS..
Confession
The sin I did
I wish I will never do it again
Yet tomorrow the same song I will sing
The road never travelled
Rough and thorny
The grass is tall and green
Destruction or freedom, were will the road lead me to?
My Bella
I await the sun to rise
So that I can be with the love of my love
My beautiful Bella..
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved
Tuesday 26 July 2011
detective,blind beggar and the dead prostitute..the last chapter.
A fleet of police cars made its way to the beggar's house.After looking at the evidence they had acquired, they believed that the beggar was the prime suspect.Nobody knew the beggar's house until now.The house was located five blocks away from Elizabeth's.Thus on the way the detective decided that they should pass by Elizabeth's house and see if they can pick a few pieces of evidence.
The house was small but well furnished.It had two chairs, a table and fire place.The kitchen was so clean because it wasn't often used.She stayed alone in the house. On her walls were portraits of herself and of a young girl dancing ballet.The officers and the detective searched the house and found no outstanding clues that could help.The search was called off."it's better we leave" said the detective."we have to go chase the blind man before he regains his sight".As the detective was about to leave he noticed something different about the fire place.The fire place had not been used for a long time yet it was winter in Gotham city.It looked so clean and seemed to be used as something else rather than a fire place.The detective bended and looked inside.He pulled off his hand holding a small case.Inside the case were letters.Most of the letters where stamped,but there was one wich looked fresh. The ink was still smelling, it must have been the last letter that Elizabeth had written.It read;
Dear David
you are a good man and you will make a good husband.I am sorry my heart belongs to him who knows it.We cant be together.I belong to the beggar.Next month we leave town to start a new life. Not as beggar and prostitute but as man and wife
may you find your love as i a have found mine.
yourstruly
Elizabeth.
David was a Surgeon and lived in Newcastle.He had been seen several times with Elizabeth but no one thought they was anything serious.The fleet was diverted to David 's house.A knock at the door did not help as no one seemed to answer. The detective gave an order that the door be opened.Inside the house was nothing except for Davids body hanging on the ceiling and a note written
.
what if i loved her...
what if i say she never loved me
what if she ever really wanted was the beggar...
then i would be left with one choice..
to shoot her....
the end
the story is a play.It has been edited to suit blog readership.Thank you for reading and keep reading as we will post more written work tomorrow.
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved
The house was small but well furnished.It had two chairs, a table and fire place.The kitchen was so clean because it wasn't often used.She stayed alone in the house. On her walls were portraits of herself and of a young girl dancing ballet.The officers and the detective searched the house and found no outstanding clues that could help.The search was called off."it's better we leave" said the detective."we have to go chase the blind man before he regains his sight".As the detective was about to leave he noticed something different about the fire place.The fire place had not been used for a long time yet it was winter in Gotham city.It looked so clean and seemed to be used as something else rather than a fire place.The detective bended and looked inside.He pulled off his hand holding a small case.Inside the case were letters.Most of the letters where stamped,but there was one wich looked fresh. The ink was still smelling, it must have been the last letter that Elizabeth had written.It read;
Dear David
you are a good man and you will make a good husband.I am sorry my heart belongs to him who knows it.We cant be together.I belong to the beggar.Next month we leave town to start a new life. Not as beggar and prostitute but as man and wife
may you find your love as i a have found mine.
yourstruly
Elizabeth.
David was a Surgeon and lived in Newcastle.He had been seen several times with Elizabeth but no one thought they was anything serious.The fleet was diverted to David 's house.A knock at the door did not help as no one seemed to answer. The detective gave an order that the door be opened.Inside the house was nothing except for Davids body hanging on the ceiling and a note written
.
what if i loved her...
what if i say she never loved me
what if she ever really wanted was the beggar...
then i would be left with one choice..
to shoot her....
the end
the story is a play.It has been edited to suit blog readership.Thank you for reading and keep reading as we will post more written work tomorrow.
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved
Monday 25 July 2011
the detective,blind beggar and the dead prostitute.
In every man's heart there is a void that can only be filled by one thing we love the most.To others it is the desire to rise to fame and be a popstar,while for some it is marrying the most beutiful woman in town and rest it is to find the woman who loves you the most.For the detective it looked like solving a case is one thing that his heart always craved for.The note he received was just but a part of the great puzzle he had to solve.The case had now presented to him in three fold,they was a dead prostitute,the blind witness and the Humming bird.Who was the Humming bird?."We cant conclude and say he is the killer.He did not say he killed the prostitute but he asked us a qeustion" spoke the detective pulling out his cigaratte."The killer is not giving us clues he is trying to confuse us, all we have to do is to let him play our game we keep him waiting"
The blind beggar was led to the qeustioning room.He had been quite since morning, but now he had to talk.The detective introduced himself to the blind man and asked "if you may sir tell us what happened the morning Elizabeth was gunned to death".The beggar cleared his throat and spoke " we were coming from a long night,she had just been dropped off by a client and i had spent the whole night playing my guitar at the Hills Inn.It happened that as i was living i met up with her.We shared the road home,on the way a man came along and asked Miss Elizabeth for a quick word.Later on i heard some gun shots and footsteps.I called Elizabeth and she didnt answer,i knew something wrong had happened.Thus, i called for help and the police because i couldn't do nothing as a blind man"."Did Elizabeth mention to you who her last client was"."Yes,she said it was Mr Henry"."Did she mention any peson who she had an misunderstanding with previously". "No" answered the beggar.
They two things that the detective was good at defining; a lie and the truth.That evening he did not sleep.He spent the whole night studying the letter from the humming bird,some pictures from the scene and the statement of the beggar.In the letter the Humming bird mentioned two things he could do,write,play and beg.These were similar to what the begger would do.The detective had requested that the beggar's house be searched for clues and among the findings were songs written by the beggar for Elizabeth.One of the songs read a part simillar to the letter sent by the Humming bird it read "what if i told you i cant sing no more, what if i told you i was blind would you love me still,my miss Elizabeth...."A number of question ran through the detective's head.Maybe the beggar was in love with the prostitute but she did not love him.This made him jealousy thus killing the prostitute.He later on wrote a note to use it as a decoy for him,pretends the Humming bird killed the prostitute.What could humm as a bird the good singer,thought the detective.The beggar says someone came and shot Miss Elizabeth but couldn't tell who it was.After a long day of thought and reasoning.the detective concluded "its either the beggar killed Miss Elizabeth and only one person could answer that".......to be continued
The last chapter of the story will be posted tommorow.please note that this is play written by Hawulethu Dube,due its length it has been edited to suit blog readership.Keep reading
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved.
The blind beggar was led to the qeustioning room.He had been quite since morning, but now he had to talk.The detective introduced himself to the blind man and asked "if you may sir tell us what happened the morning Elizabeth was gunned to death".The beggar cleared his throat and spoke " we were coming from a long night,she had just been dropped off by a client and i had spent the whole night playing my guitar at the Hills Inn.It happened that as i was living i met up with her.We shared the road home,on the way a man came along and asked Miss Elizabeth for a quick word.Later on i heard some gun shots and footsteps.I called Elizabeth and she didnt answer,i knew something wrong had happened.Thus, i called for help and the police because i couldn't do nothing as a blind man"."Did Elizabeth mention to you who her last client was"."Yes,she said it was Mr Henry"."Did she mention any peson who she had an misunderstanding with previously". "No" answered the beggar.
They two things that the detective was good at defining; a lie and the truth.That evening he did not sleep.He spent the whole night studying the letter from the humming bird,some pictures from the scene and the statement of the beggar.In the letter the Humming bird mentioned two things he could do,write,play and beg.These were similar to what the begger would do.The detective had requested that the beggar's house be searched for clues and among the findings were songs written by the beggar for Elizabeth.One of the songs read a part simillar to the letter sent by the Humming bird it read "what if i told you i cant sing no more, what if i told you i was blind would you love me still,my miss Elizabeth...."A number of question ran through the detective's head.Maybe the beggar was in love with the prostitute but she did not love him.This made him jealousy thus killing the prostitute.He later on wrote a note to use it as a decoy for him,pretends the Humming bird killed the prostitute.What could humm as a bird the good singer,thought the detective.The beggar says someone came and shot Miss Elizabeth but couldn't tell who it was.After a long day of thought and reasoning.the detective concluded "its either the beggar killed Miss Elizabeth and only one person could answer that".......to be continued
The last chapter of the story will be posted tommorow.please note that this is play written by Hawulethu Dube,due its length it has been edited to suit blog readership.Keep reading
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved.
Friday 22 July 2011
the detective,blind beggar and the dead prostitute. part II
Beside being a well located street where you can find everything you need,Fourth street had two things that two kinds of people would come looking for.If one had a broken heart and was looking for some nice time to take away his agony, you would find the best prostitute in town.If you where so happy and looking for someone to bless,you still find the best beggar in town.
People at Gotham didnt like Marcos because he was blind,they loved the way he played his guiter.One old lady used to say "there are a lot of blind man in Gotham but they is only one who knows how to beg,Marcos the guitarist".Marcos and the detective had one thing in common,rumour tells us of their stories.We are not told of his wife or kids or even where he lives.He plays the guiter in the morning and rest for a while,he continues again in the evening until no one moves in the streets only cat and mouse.He didnt have many friends except for two; his guiter and the prostitute who was now dead.
Marco loved Elizabeth with all his heart.Nobody understood why he played his guiter in the morning and evening,well most probaly it was because of Elizabeth.She said she was lonely and needed company.She couldnt share the same street with onother prostitute.She too found a friend in Marcos,she too had a gift, she sang so well.
Every prostutte envied her not because of her beuty but becase of her voice.No man could resist such sweet words. When she sang old church ladies would weep and say "lord have mercy your lost sheep".Everyone knew about her and most men wanted her.Different kinds of men would come pick her up and drop her off thats all she did in her short life of Elizabeth.
Who killed the prostitute?,why?,when? and how?.The detective went to the body and opened the red cloth that was covering the body. He put on some gloves and looked for every detail he could find.The body had three bullet wounds shot from close range.She died on the spot."Okay" said the detective"the killer must have been in a hurry,and knew the deceased,because shooting once is one thing three times is the other"."Officer" cried the detective "i want you to get me every detail of the clients she was dealing with, friends, enemies and family". "Yes sir", replied the officer.The body was covered again and taken to the motuary.
The place was clearing now and the body taken away.The detective was left with one more task,questioning the beggar.He was the witness and the one who reported the incident . "Atleast we are one step ahead" said one of the officers "we have a witness the blind begger"." In actual fact we are two steps behind, he might have heard everything but he didnt see nothing" says the detective in a calm voice "can somebody please help the beggar into the car ,get him some coffe and take him to the office for questioning.The beggar was carried to the car ,he was still quite and saying nothing.
All the scene investigation were done and it was time to live.Fourth street was quite that day, during the day the beggar played good music while at night Elizabeth gave food to the body.Every men who passed by the scene of the murder would stop for a while and salute as if a great person had died.But for most women they just node their heads and God knows whether they where happy or sad.The detective was already in the car waiting for his driver when an officer knocked on the window and handed him a note written what if i say i cant play anymore? what if i say i cant write anymore? what if i say i cant beg no more would you still love me.And what if i say i killed the prostitue would believe me?
yours truly
humming bird.
to be continued...
Dont forget to read the previous chapter ,chapter 1 the dead prostitute.The thrid chapter will be posted on monday thank you for reading and please dont forget to comment,critisize and put some suggestions.If you know who killed the prostitute please halla.
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved
People at Gotham didnt like Marcos because he was blind,they loved the way he played his guiter.One old lady used to say "there are a lot of blind man in Gotham but they is only one who knows how to beg,Marcos the guitarist".Marcos and the detective had one thing in common,rumour tells us of their stories.We are not told of his wife or kids or even where he lives.He plays the guiter in the morning and rest for a while,he continues again in the evening until no one moves in the streets only cat and mouse.He didnt have many friends except for two; his guiter and the prostitute who was now dead.
Marco loved Elizabeth with all his heart.Nobody understood why he played his guiter in the morning and evening,well most probaly it was because of Elizabeth.She said she was lonely and needed company.She couldnt share the same street with onother prostitute.She too found a friend in Marcos,she too had a gift, she sang so well.
Every prostutte envied her not because of her beuty but becase of her voice.No man could resist such sweet words. When she sang old church ladies would weep and say "lord have mercy your lost sheep".Everyone knew about her and most men wanted her.Different kinds of men would come pick her up and drop her off thats all she did in her short life of Elizabeth.
Who killed the prostitute?,why?,when? and how?.The detective went to the body and opened the red cloth that was covering the body. He put on some gloves and looked for every detail he could find.The body had three bullet wounds shot from close range.She died on the spot."Okay" said the detective"the killer must have been in a hurry,and knew the deceased,because shooting once is one thing three times is the other"."Officer" cried the detective "i want you to get me every detail of the clients she was dealing with, friends, enemies and family". "Yes sir", replied the officer.The body was covered again and taken to the motuary.
The place was clearing now and the body taken away.The detective was left with one more task,questioning the beggar.He was the witness and the one who reported the incident . "Atleast we are one step ahead" said one of the officers "we have a witness the blind begger"." In actual fact we are two steps behind, he might have heard everything but he didnt see nothing" says the detective in a calm voice "can somebody please help the beggar into the car ,get him some coffe and take him to the office for questioning.The beggar was carried to the car ,he was still quite and saying nothing.
All the scene investigation were done and it was time to live.Fourth street was quite that day, during the day the beggar played good music while at night Elizabeth gave food to the body.Every men who passed by the scene of the murder would stop for a while and salute as if a great person had died.But for most women they just node their heads and God knows whether they where happy or sad.The detective was already in the car waiting for his driver when an officer knocked on the window and handed him a note written what if i say i cant play anymore? what if i say i cant write anymore? what if i say i cant beg no more would you still love me.And what if i say i killed the prostitue would believe me?
yours truly
humming bird.
to be continued...
Dont forget to read the previous chapter ,chapter 1 the dead prostitute.The thrid chapter will be posted on monday thank you for reading and please dont forget to comment,critisize and put some suggestions.If you know who killed the prostitute please halla.
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved
Thursday 21 July 2011
the detective,blind beggar and the dead prostitute.
For every mountain there is the sweetest tree where all birds love to come and dine;for every valley there is the coolest waters where animals prefer to drink and in every village there is a lady who brews the best beer, no man will forget her.In Gotham city, fourth street intersection is the valley of cool waters,the mountain of sweet figs and thus were you find the lady that brews. It is the busiest street in town.Every businessman would love to get space to rent there.The rich and the poor pass there,politicians and preachermen also share the same street.Every professional from dentist,surgeon,doctors,mechanics and lawyers have crowded their small offices so that they can all drink from the well of opportunity.Amongst such great proffesions are two of the oldest proffesions; prostitution and begging.The street is big,but the rule in Gotham city is, no two businesses can share the same street. One doctor one street one bakery one street.There was one prostitute and one beggar.
Fourth street is a busy street but today it's more busy, not even busy but crowded.A crowd has surrounded corner fourth street where the blind begger and the prostitute share the spot.Cars have been blocked and business put to a stand still.An old lady stands and asks one of the people"whats happening there". The man replies "i heard that somebody was killed last night". The old lady shakes her head and says "every road leads to a destination".
A loud siren was heard followed by clearing of people.The people were moved aside to allow the detective to go to the scene.He wore a long coat and walked as if he owned the world.He didnt wink or smile,you couldn't tell whether he is happy or sad.The only thing he did was smoke,smoke and smoke again.Everybody knew about the detective in town but nobody knew where he stayed.Rumor tell us of his life.It says he once was married, had a child but all disappeared without trace.Some say his wife and child died while others say he killed his own wife and hid her in his basement.But nobody can find the truth about his wife and child except himself.He is the detective no case can hide,no lie can live and no clue cannot be solved by him.Yet another case has presented it self before him.
He stood there before the body puffed his cigaratte and threw it away.Next to the dead prostitute was the beggar,he was sitting at his usual place holding on his guiter and staff.An officer comes to the detective and says "sir we have one witness and he is the one who reported the murder"."Where is he?" spoke the detective."its the blind begger you are looking at"......to be continued
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved.
Fourth street is a busy street but today it's more busy, not even busy but crowded.A crowd has surrounded corner fourth street where the blind begger and the prostitute share the spot.Cars have been blocked and business put to a stand still.An old lady stands and asks one of the people"whats happening there". The man replies "i heard that somebody was killed last night". The old lady shakes her head and says "every road leads to a destination".
A loud siren was heard followed by clearing of people.The people were moved aside to allow the detective to go to the scene.He wore a long coat and walked as if he owned the world.He didnt wink or smile,you couldn't tell whether he is happy or sad.The only thing he did was smoke,smoke and smoke again.Everybody knew about the detective in town but nobody knew where he stayed.Rumor tell us of his life.It says he once was married, had a child but all disappeared without trace.Some say his wife and child died while others say he killed his own wife and hid her in his basement.But nobody can find the truth about his wife and child except himself.He is the detective no case can hide,no lie can live and no clue cannot be solved by him.Yet another case has presented it self before him.
He stood there before the body puffed his cigaratte and threw it away.Next to the dead prostitute was the beggar,he was sitting at his usual place holding on his guiter and staff.An officer comes to the detective and says "sir we have one witness and he is the one who reported the murder"."Where is he?" spoke the detective."its the blind begger you are looking at"......to be continued
the detective,blind beggar and dead prostitute is a play adapted into a short stort.The story will be posted daily until the detective solves the case.Saturday and Sunday exlcuded.Join me and the detective as we solve the case.
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved.
Monday 18 July 2011
letters to Madiba
Dear Madiba
July 18,i was at Diepsloot celebrating your birthday.Happy birthday.I met up with a lot of young people,they said to me 'we want to see u tata'' and i said 'i am sorry you can see utata cos he is a busy man''.So they thought its best that they send you letters.
please find attached leters from Diepsloot
dear ntate Madiba
I know you ,you dont know me.My name is linda Khumalo.I heard today its your birthday,so we were called to meet at the community hall.It was so fun.We saw people dance,sing and do drama.We laughed until tears dropped off our faces.After that we were given food, lots of it.I kept some for my brother Thabang.Do you know why my brother did not come for the celebrations?.We live in diepsloot with my mother and brother,i cant recall were my father is. Two years ago my brother lost his sight because of an explosion of gas at home. Our home doesn't have electricity or running water and its really hard for us.I hope that even as you read this letter you will remind the goverment of their duty.
love you tata
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dear tata.
thank you so much for Mandela day.Is it possible if here in Diepsloot we can have Mandela day every day cos thats only when we get to eat cakes.
How are you tata.I heard my mother and father say that you were once the president of South Africa,lovely, what happened. ayi ahh..i heard that when you were president they were proper houses in Diepsloot. They never existed these slums,they was no crime and xenophobia. My father doesnt work now my mother is a street vendor and i am a child.If you can help tata, please come and be our president once again.
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![]()
![]()
dear tata
![]()
thank you so much Dr Nelson Mandela
Thank you celebrating with us Mandela day
written by hawulethu dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved
July 18,i was at Diepsloot celebrating your birthday.Happy birthday.I met up with a lot of young people,they said to me 'we want to see u tata'' and i said 'i am sorry you can see utata cos he is a busy man''.So they thought its best that they send you letters.
please find attached leters from Diepsloot
dear ntate Madiba
I know you ,you dont know me.My name is linda Khumalo.I heard today its your birthday,so we were called to meet at the community hall.It was so fun.We saw people dance,sing and do drama.We laughed until tears dropped off our faces.After that we were given food, lots of it.I kept some for my brother Thabang.Do you know why my brother did not come for the celebrations?.We live in diepsloot with my mother and brother,i cant recall were my father is. Two years ago my brother lost his sight because of an explosion of gas at home. Our home doesn't have electricity or running water and its really hard for us.I hope that even as you read this letter you will remind the goverment of their duty.
love you tata
dear tata.
thank you so much for Mandela day.Is it possible if here in Diepsloot we can have Mandela day every day cos thats only when we get to eat cakes.
dear madiba
How are you tata.I heard my mother and father say that you were once the president of South Africa,lovely, what happened. ayi ahh..i heard that when you were president they were proper houses in Diepsloot. They never existed these slums,they was no crime and xenophobia. My father doesnt work now my mother is a street vendor and i am a child.If you can help tata, please come and be our president once again.
Sicelo Ndlovu
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thank you so much for the cakes and happy birthday. We love you.
victor
Dear tata
its been a long road.A melodious hymm.and a story that every talebearer would love to tell.Before we were born our mothers sang the song,before we could walk, our fathers whistled your name.And when our breast were sharp,the boys called themselves madiba,now we are adults we celebrate together singing not the old song 'free madiba free madiba' but the new one'halala Madiba halala Madiba'
its been a long road.A melodious hymm.and a story that every talebearer would love to tell.Before we were born our mothers sang the song,before we could walk, our fathers whistled your name.And when our breast were sharp,the boys called themselves madiba,now we are adults we celebrate together singing not the old song 'free madiba free madiba' but the new one'halala Madiba halala Madiba'
Thank you celebrating with us Mandela day
letters to Madiba is under opnion and analysis segment ,defining life at its best.Thank you so much for reading why not send Madiba a letter by commenting.
pictures taken at the Diepsloot community hall on the 18th of july 2011.
characters in the script are not real but the letters are a summary of the life in the slums of Diesploot.
mandela celebrations were held at the diepsloot community hall, and the script was inspired by the situation and the people of Diepsloot.
pictures taken at the Diepsloot community hall on the 18th of july 2011.
characters in the script are not real but the letters are a summary of the life in the slums of Diesploot.
mandela celebrations were held at the diepsloot community hall, and the script was inspired by the situation and the people of Diepsloot.
written by hawulethu dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved
Friday 15 July 2011
How i met your mother..
"hey ,i will throw a stone three times on the roof, you will know i am outside". I will whistle the tune of the A TEAM,you will find me squatting under the guava tree. "i will buzz(miss-call) your land line twice,you pretended you going to empty the bin....".
My grandmother used to tell me stories of how she and grandpa met. She would tell of the long traditional ceremonies that she had to go through for her to meet the love of her life. Well i guess i was not the only person she lectured on the topic how to get married.Some things just don't last forever, so did the so called fifty ways of getting married. The fifty were reduced to twenty, twenty to ten ,then God knows what happened to the rest.The tradition lost its rhythm and value, young man started plotting ways of getting what they want. The terms changed from fifty ways of getting married to how to catch a bird. Boys started walking at night first carrying stones,then things improved Graham Bell introduced the telephone.So stones were put down, boys resorted to buzzing the land-line.If it didn't work,one had to be diplomatic enough by building a relationship with the young brother,get him a few sweets and you are on the safe side.Well things changed once again,cellular phones made life much easy.,If don't have one don't bother trying to fall in love.Finally internet and social network made everything easy no more stoning,miss calling or abusing young brothers,from the comfort of your home one can fall in love.
Going to see was one thing talking was the other.When growing up they were two thing that won a lady how you look and your line.However, the latter always conquered the former.Did lines evolve also?, i guess so ,unfortunate for me my granny never mentioned anything about lines. However the mind can take us any where we want.
lines on how to win a lady.
1870
MAN: your teeth look so white and sharper than Shaka's assegai ,every-time you smile my heart bleeds
1950
MAN: I survived the world war and veitnam war,but your war has caputured my heart.
1990
MAN: Many African countries have gained their independence but my heart is still bound please set me free.
2010
Blackberries are black, Nokias are loud your face just wanna make me chat.
You know what i am wood and when i see you i am on fire.
If you were a ball i would call you jabulani, a puppet i would call you Zakumi but since you are human i might as well call you pure awesomeness.
I am the Face and you the Book, we so so match.
After all has been said and done nature always has a way of making things work, how i met your mother.
Why not share with us your lines.
How i met your mother is an article under opinion and analysis segment, defining life at its best.
Thank you so much for taking this journey with me, we have just completed our five weekly post.Unfortunate we cant post on Saturday and Sunday. However they is always am Monday.
love you all
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved.
My grandmother used to tell me stories of how she and grandpa met. She would tell of the long traditional ceremonies that she had to go through for her to meet the love of her life. Well i guess i was not the only person she lectured on the topic how to get married.Some things just don't last forever, so did the so called fifty ways of getting married. The fifty were reduced to twenty, twenty to ten ,then God knows what happened to the rest.The tradition lost its rhythm and value, young man started plotting ways of getting what they want. The terms changed from fifty ways of getting married to how to catch a bird. Boys started walking at night first carrying stones,then things improved Graham Bell introduced the telephone.So stones were put down, boys resorted to buzzing the land-line.If it didn't work,one had to be diplomatic enough by building a relationship with the young brother,get him a few sweets and you are on the safe side.Well things changed once again,cellular phones made life much easy.,If don't have one don't bother trying to fall in love.Finally internet and social network made everything easy no more stoning,miss calling or abusing young brothers,from the comfort of your home one can fall in love.
Going to see was one thing talking was the other.When growing up they were two thing that won a lady how you look and your line.However, the latter always conquered the former.Did lines evolve also?, i guess so ,unfortunate for me my granny never mentioned anything about lines. However the mind can take us any where we want.
lines on how to win a lady.
1870
MAN: your teeth look so white and sharper than Shaka's assegai ,every-time you smile my heart bleeds
1950
MAN: I survived the world war and veitnam war,but your war has caputured my heart.
1990
MAN: Many African countries have gained their independence but my heart is still bound please set me free.
2010
Blackberries are black, Nokias are loud your face just wanna make me chat.
You know what i am wood and when i see you i am on fire.
If you were a ball i would call you jabulani, a puppet i would call you Zakumi but since you are human i might as well call you pure awesomeness.
I am the Face and you the Book, we so so match.
After all has been said and done nature always has a way of making things work, how i met your mother.
Why not share with us your lines.
How i met your mother is an article under opinion and analysis segment, defining life at its best.
Thank you so much for taking this journey with me, we have just completed our five weekly post.Unfortunate we cant post on Saturday and Sunday. However they is always am Monday.
love you all
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved.
Thursday 14 July 2011
all in a day's work
Two things that my late father told me and will always remember;no one applied to be born and money does not grow on trees. By then i was young, i thought he was the wisest man on earth until i realized he wasn't but he knew how to get his way away from trouble. Though he could get away from trouble he never solved any problems. Well thus my father for you. I grew up in a family of four and i am the last born..lol..as what facebookers would say. In my two decades life i have learn't that in most families there is one thing common every father has a nick name or call it a slave name depending on were you did your grade five.
Giving father a nick name was a strategy as kids for communicating whatsoever plan we have within the house without the big man knowing our plots. We never had a problem with mother, and i guess i do have witnesses on that point. We named our father Mdara zober. Mdara zober was a funny,controversial and self proclaimed wise Solomon DJ at a popular local radio station. So was our father, if they was no bread at home he would say" money doesn't grow on tress" and if we reply and say but you are our father he would say " no one applied to be born". So we thought why not call him our very ouw Mdara zober.
Visiting a relative of mine in Emakhandeni one of the townships in kwa Bulawayo, i met up with a man called MAKHABITSHI translated in the queens language as Mr Cabbage.It all began every morning when people were going to work,they would meet at the bus stop. It's common in most areas to always share the bus stop with same people over and over again.Makhabitshi (by then was Mr Moyo) would arrive a little late and find the taxi queue long. He looked good but that's not what caught the attention of the people, it was the little red lunch box that he carried everyday. Every morning Makhabitshi would come carrying the red lucnh box, then you would hear people whisper" do you know what is in that lunch tin?" "no""pizza my boy the man eats good food no wonder he is that big.". Well no one knew expect for the lunch tin holder.
It happened that one morning as Moyo was making his way to the queue that he tripped himself and almost fell. He didn't fall though, but the lunch tin did . It went up the air and in a bid to save his meal Moyo dived but could not catch it. Unfortunately, the lunch tin fell down hitting the ground in full force it opened. An African hard little mountain of papa that had survived yesterday's supper and oil-less cabbage better described in Ndebele.."ikhabitshi engazwelanga amafutha yabonakala iseqa kuthi ngapha isobho yamanzi igeleza ngathi ngumazayi" well from that day we said goodbye Mr Moyo welcome Makhabitshi.
Names carry glory,ability,character and sometimes history. Some names we dont apply for but other we do. What is your name?
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved
Giving father a nick name was a strategy as kids for communicating whatsoever plan we have within the house without the big man knowing our plots. We never had a problem with mother, and i guess i do have witnesses on that point. We named our father Mdara zober. Mdara zober was a funny,controversial and self proclaimed wise Solomon DJ at a popular local radio station. So was our father, if they was no bread at home he would say" money doesn't grow on tress" and if we reply and say but you are our father he would say " no one applied to be born". So we thought why not call him our very ouw Mdara zober.
Visiting a relative of mine in Emakhandeni one of the townships in kwa Bulawayo, i met up with a man called MAKHABITSHI translated in the queens language as Mr Cabbage.It all began every morning when people were going to work,they would meet at the bus stop. It's common in most areas to always share the bus stop with same people over and over again.Makhabitshi (by then was Mr Moyo) would arrive a little late and find the taxi queue long. He looked good but that's not what caught the attention of the people, it was the little red lunch box that he carried everyday. Every morning Makhabitshi would come carrying the red lucnh box, then you would hear people whisper" do you know what is in that lunch tin?" "no""pizza my boy the man eats good food no wonder he is that big.". Well no one knew expect for the lunch tin holder.
It happened that one morning as Moyo was making his way to the queue that he tripped himself and almost fell. He didn't fall though, but the lunch tin did . It went up the air and in a bid to save his meal Moyo dived but could not catch it. Unfortunately, the lunch tin fell down hitting the ground in full force it opened. An African hard little mountain of papa that had survived yesterday's supper and oil-less cabbage better described in Ndebele.."ikhabitshi engazwelanga amafutha yabonakala iseqa kuthi ngapha isobho yamanzi igeleza ngathi ngumazayi" well from that day we said goodbye Mr Moyo welcome Makhabitshi.
Names carry glory,ability,character and sometimes history. Some names we dont apply for but other we do. What is your name?
All in a days work is an opinion and analysis segment on the blog. We get to narrate and relate to our day to day activities, our past experiences and of course try by all sense to define life. Enjoy our journey.
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved
Wednesday 13 July 2011
there is a slave in my yard..
Eyes wide open, chest held high, fist folded and mouth shut he looked at me and at once i knew, there is a slave in my yard.I ran to the house to call the police, 'ring ring' he is not picking up his phone. There is no one in the office. Where is the inspector? He is at home . What is he doing ? His wife is sick.I left the message to the operator 'when the inspector comes tell him that i said there is a slave in my yard'.
I locked the doors, closed the windows and took my shot gun.'I will kill him if he makes any move, i promise,i will kill him' fearfully and quietly i said to my self. Still he stood there like a stature not making a move or winking with his eyes.
'He who rules with a sword will die by a sword'. 'Today i die' i said to my self 'just like Mrs Wilson.He will rape me, cut my throat and throw me into the bush far far away . People will look for me and they will not find me.Only birds and hyenas will be singers at my burial, ants and mites will be sand to my bones. I will fight though, fight for my life . I wont give up easily. Anyway he is slave and i am free. Ha ha ha its funny who is free now him or me ? I am locked up in my own home hiding from a slave. Who is the master ? There is no honor or ranking when death knocks at the door. It makes all man equal. All of us will die whether by the sword or by a slave , free or not free, black or white. What matters now there is a slave in my yard.
Ring ring , i try to phone the inspector once again he ain't picking his phone. What profit is the law if it can't protect you? What profit is the government if it cannot run a nation or feed its people?. What profit is love if it hurts you ? Where is the inspector? He is at home. What is he doing? His wife is dying. A dying good wife and a living prostitute. One thing in common they are both woman, they carry the reason for man's pride ,ego and satisfaction.
Ring ring , my phone is ringing.'Hello is it the inspector?' 'Yes it is. 'Thank you, i have been trying to call you. There is slave in my yard. He has been standing here for an hour, he is dangerous and i need you to send man down here as soon as possible
INSPECTOR:.I am sorry Mrs Smith i cannot help you.
SMITH: Why?
"We don't have no slave now every man has been declared free,black or white,Asian or African, Jew or Gentile.Every living being is now equal."Says who?'. "Says the President and the constitution of our country." She keeps quite for a while and says..."Then i guess there is a man trespassing on my property".
Will have to see if he really is trespassing or you are trespassing. The former slaves royal family have been given the right to claim back their fore fathers land as means of reconciling. Why don't you go and ask him why he is there.
I went straight to him fearless as ever, i introduced my self to him and i said "how are you sir, how can i help you". He said nothing for a while then he spoke "My name is Mattheus heir and last born of the last king of the Marwa people, under your house lies the bones of my fore fathers, where your farm is lies the bones of my mother. I am a free man now and i have come back home.
I went straight to the kitchen took the phone and called my husband. "Honey " i said to him"there is king in my yard"...
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved.
I locked the doors, closed the windows and took my shot gun.'I will kill him if he makes any move, i promise,i will kill him' fearfully and quietly i said to my self. Still he stood there like a stature not making a move or winking with his eyes.
'He who rules with a sword will die by a sword'. 'Today i die' i said to my self 'just like Mrs Wilson.He will rape me, cut my throat and throw me into the bush far far away . People will look for me and they will not find me.Only birds and hyenas will be singers at my burial, ants and mites will be sand to my bones. I will fight though, fight for my life . I wont give up easily. Anyway he is slave and i am free. Ha ha ha its funny who is free now him or me ? I am locked up in my own home hiding from a slave. Who is the master ? There is no honor or ranking when death knocks at the door. It makes all man equal. All of us will die whether by the sword or by a slave , free or not free, black or white. What matters now there is a slave in my yard.
Ring ring , i try to phone the inspector once again he ain't picking his phone. What profit is the law if it can't protect you? What profit is the government if it cannot run a nation or feed its people?. What profit is love if it hurts you ? Where is the inspector? He is at home. What is he doing? His wife is dying. A dying good wife and a living prostitute. One thing in common they are both woman, they carry the reason for man's pride ,ego and satisfaction.
Ring ring , my phone is ringing.'Hello is it the inspector?' 'Yes it is. 'Thank you, i have been trying to call you. There is slave in my yard. He has been standing here for an hour, he is dangerous and i need you to send man down here as soon as possible
INSPECTOR:.I am sorry Mrs Smith i cannot help you.
SMITH: Why?
"We don't have no slave now every man has been declared free,black or white,Asian or African, Jew or Gentile.Every living being is now equal."Says who?'. "Says the President and the constitution of our country." She keeps quite for a while and says..."Then i guess there is a man trespassing on my property".
Will have to see if he really is trespassing or you are trespassing. The former slaves royal family have been given the right to claim back their fore fathers land as means of reconciling. Why don't you go and ask him why he is there.
I went straight to him fearless as ever, i introduced my self to him and i said "how are you sir, how can i help you". He said nothing for a while then he spoke "My name is Mattheus heir and last born of the last king of the Marwa people, under your house lies the bones of my fore fathers, where your farm is lies the bones of my mother. I am a free man now and i have come back home.
I went straight to the kitchen took the phone and called my husband. "Honey " i said to him"there is king in my yard"...
written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved.
Tuesday 12 July 2011
sofia town
Amongst many was one
Amongst the rich was the wise
Amongst the guilty was the judge
Rock solid crystal clear i heard it in my ear
Sofia town the mother of one...
A story once i heard, a tale twice they said
my mama new the song she sang until she sobbed
hoping to built a place were dreams come true
a story i never kept , a tale they never built
Sofia town the mother of one.....
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery none but ourselves can free our lives
once i heard the song, twice in our hearts we sobbed
hoping that one day they would built our dreams
Sofia town the mother of one...
Again today we watched the sunset
we knew our dreams will never rise again
i watched the old-women weep, i saw the old man groan
all in tears all in pain we hope to sing the song
yet we sobbed in sorrows
they promised to built our town in exchange for trust and power
but in their promises they built themselves mansions and palaces on top of our heads
Sophia town the mother of none...
WRITTEN BY HAWULETHU DUBE
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved
Amongst the rich was the wise
Amongst the guilty was the judge
Rock solid crystal clear i heard it in my ear
Sofia town the mother of one...
A story once i heard, a tale twice they said
my mama new the song she sang until she sobbed
hoping to built a place were dreams come true
a story i never kept , a tale they never built
Sofia town the mother of one.....
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery none but ourselves can free our lives
once i heard the song, twice in our hearts we sobbed
hoping that one day they would built our dreams
Sofia town the mother of one...
Again today we watched the sunset
we knew our dreams will never rise again
i watched the old-women weep, i saw the old man groan
all in tears all in pain we hope to sing the song
yet we sobbed in sorrows
they promised to built our town in exchange for trust and power
but in their promises they built themselves mansions and palaces on top of our heads
Sophia town the mother of none...
IN MEMORY OF THE BROKEN PROMISES MADE BY AFRICAN LEADERS
WRITTEN BY HAWULETHU DUBE
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved
Monday 11 July 2011
then came along the writer....the journey begins
Once upon a village lived a poor man who had little, but lived the most of his life. A thousand lives away, was a widow who married the wrong man now she mourns his death. In a big city full of lust, sin and death i found a preacherman. I took a walk in the bush , i saw a dead lion, i thought i would find honey like Samson instead i found a rat sitting on the throne singing "whose the king of the jungle now ?". A living dog is better than a dead lion.
Everyone can write but it takes a writer to write something that people would love to read. There is no writing without a reader and there is no reading without a writer. From the greatest writers of all time he spoke ,then he wrote the best selling book the bible, much love to God amen. Writing is a gift, a tool that God gave to man so that man can always stay in contact with the past,present and future. It is a tool we use to create our own world, people, relationships and invention . it is the translation of the spoken word into the seen word. it is a good thing to do and i love to write.
Thank you for following this blog, we shall write and read together.
WHY READING?
We read so that we can be informed, educated,entertained and inspired. We read so that we can flex our brains into tools that are sharp in capturing, analysing and realizing data.
MY WRITING
I draw inspiration from life. I am inspired by a leaf that falls from a tree, a begger that has begged whole of his life and has never had enough, a preacherman that preaches every sunday and politicians who seem to gain weight when they are voted into power.I draw life from a river when it is quite, the sun when it sets and boy trying to fall in love with a girl. When all has been found i sit and write. Rather than just entertaining i want my stories to inspire and change your life.
OUR JOURNEY
It wont be long but exciting. The writers and readers blog is a platform for aspiring writers and readers to sharpen their God given gift and make it work for them. A gift is not a fully a gift unless it brings bread on the table, so why neglect it ? Its also a blog for people that love to read why not join me in my journey of love.
POST
Our post willl comprise of poetry, short stories, articles on life, opinion and analysis, picture documentary, plays, qoutes, movie scripts and weekly reviews. Will be posting everyday stay connected.
Thank you for following the writers and readers blog we sure will have a fruitful journey
Your pen and paper
HAWULETHU DUBE
a saxjaz7 production.
all right reserved.
Welcome to readers and writers blog.
Everyone can write but it takes a writer to write something that people would love to read. There is no writing without a reader and there is no reading without a writer. From the greatest writers of all time he spoke ,then he wrote the best selling book the bible, much love to God amen. Writing is a gift, a tool that God gave to man so that man can always stay in contact with the past,present and future. It is a tool we use to create our own world, people, relationships and invention . it is the translation of the spoken word into the seen word. it is a good thing to do and i love to write.
Thank you for following this blog, we shall write and read together.
WHY READING?
We read so that we can be informed, educated,entertained and inspired. We read so that we can flex our brains into tools that are sharp in capturing, analysing and realizing data.
MY WRITING
I draw inspiration from life. I am inspired by a leaf that falls from a tree, a begger that has begged whole of his life and has never had enough, a preacherman that preaches every sunday and politicians who seem to gain weight when they are voted into power.I draw life from a river when it is quite, the sun when it sets and boy trying to fall in love with a girl. When all has been found i sit and write. Rather than just entertaining i want my stories to inspire and change your life.
OUR JOURNEY
It wont be long but exciting. The writers and readers blog is a platform for aspiring writers and readers to sharpen their God given gift and make it work for them. A gift is not a fully a gift unless it brings bread on the table, so why neglect it ? Its also a blog for people that love to read why not join me in my journey of love.
POST
Our post willl comprise of poetry, short stories, articles on life, opinion and analysis, picture documentary, plays, qoutes, movie scripts and weekly reviews. Will be posting everyday stay connected.
Thank you for following the writers and readers blog we sure will have a fruitful journey
Your pen and paper
HAWULETHU DUBE
a saxjaz7 production.
all right reserved.
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