The Obama effect.

‘Whether i earned your vote or not i have listened to you, i have learned from you and you have made me a better man’’. The words of the 44th President of the United States of America Barack Obama in his re-election victory speech.

Four years ago history has repeated itself. I remember waiting anxiously for the election results when Obama first went head to head with John McCain immediately after the announcement of the elections i looked for a tape so that i could record his victory speech. As the norm his speech was amazing, inspiring, filled with hope and a glimpse of light that all man can make it regardless of colour, stature or background. I too would like to congratulate Mitt Romney for putting up such a stunning contest.

Well the big question is how did he win? I am not American and i am far from being African American but whether you believe it or not the American election affects and impacts us all. After four years of governance i fell out of love with Obama. Given a chance to choose a president i would not have chosen him but would have voted for him a paradox indeed. I have loved some of his policies but envied most. I had great expectations that he would deliver differently and to some extent change his foreign policy which personally i have not seen any change.

I believe the reason why myself and some people stuck to Obama is because of the inspiring tale he has begun and by no means none of us was willing to let it end prematurely and uninspiring as it begun. It is the story of a black man that became a president against all odds. It is a story that regardless of your background or colour ''all of us can and will succeed if we believe''. It is for some of us that live in foreign lands a letter of hope telling us to keep believing we will make it in a foreign land.

Therefore I would like to say congratulations to  Michell and Barack Obama.

 

written by Hawulethu Dube
A saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved

@hawulethu

love, murder and a stranger in town

Love, death and a stranger in town.

I had never seen my sister smile like this since the death of her husband Tom. I wondered what is it that could make her glow like this. We sat at our usual round table close to the fish pond where we had a clear view of the sunset and a fresh breeze of air blowing all of us. I poured tea while I waited for her to share the good news. ‘’I have never seen such a gentleman in a long time’’ she spoke in soft happy voice. ‘’I met him on my way from leaving Mrs Greenwall‘s flowers. He offered to walk with me and since it was morning and I was not in a rush I said yes. We introduced each other our conversation led to us passing by 11^th avenue coffee shop for a cup of coffee. He is good with words and woman, she laughs. Maybe it’s because I have not been around man for a long time. We made a date later tonight I will be meeting him at the old restaurant close to the old train station.’’ ‘’ So how does this prince charming of yours look like?’’ I asked. ‘’He is a medium, long nose, brown eyes and was wearing a brown coat’’.

Mrs Khumalo was a close friend of my mother. Since we had no mum anymore she was the only mum I was left with. I had to rush to her home because she needed my help. On arrival there was a police car outside her gate. When I entered the house the police man was leaving. ‘’Are you alright mum’’ I asked her. ‘’Yes I am dear’’ she answered calmly. ‘’What was the policeman looking for?’’. ‘’I was giving him a statement’’. What statement? I asked. ‘’Well I guess I am a witness to a murder’’.  We made our way to the couch and she continued‘’It happened this morning, a young lady was found murdered at the old train station. I happen to go there every morning as a memorial to my late husband. There is usually no one there every morning except for myself. I know this because I have been going there for the past 13years. Today I was not alone, as I made my way to my usual spot I met a gentleman I had never seen. He was medium, long nose and he had brown eyes and was wearing a brown coat. Later on today I received a call from the Police telling me they found a lady murder at the old train station.

It all ran like a movie in front of me. I quickly asked for the phone and I called home. Ring ring the phone rang but no one picked it up………

 written by Hawulethu Dube

a saxjaz7 production

all rights reserved

follow me on twitter @hawulethu

Nomvula.....(an extract from the play Nomvula)

ELVIS      : They say the love of money is the root of all evil, be careful my friend.

RODNEY: They say poverty kills more people in Africa than malaria, be warned my friend.
(All laugh)

ELVIS       : Poverty the root and cause of Africa’s problems. I have but it’s so little to last me  the night. I hear my neighbour approach the front door. We hide our plates and wipe our mouths. ”hello my friend “he says “my family is hungry please borrow me some  bread” .I look down open my mouth and tell a lie. He goes back home I wonder what  he will say to his wife and more of, his children.

RODNEY: Poverty has made us forget ubuntu. A man and a cow both fall into a pit. A priest                  stands by and prays; a sangoma also stands and throws his bones. Eventually  the Good Samaritan comes. He rescues the cow and leaves the man.
 
ELVIS    : The greatest fight should not be between man and his kind. It should be against man  and his poverty mindset. Hopefully one day we will fight as brother to win this war. 

RODNEY: Wipe out the greediness amongst man. Who knows how the world will look like after                  that?


An extract from the play Nomvula written by Hawulethu Patrice Dube.

written and posted by Hawulethu Patrice Dube
A saxjaz7 production
All rights reserved

follow me on twitter @hawulethu

"no woman no cry''

His story was that of the beginning
He claims he was there when the creator made all.
He says he saw the red sea being filled,the mountains being lifted,
and the lion being crowned the king of the jungle.
Though the king of the jungle was there, he owned everything. The creator gave him power,
authority and dominion.
He had all,enjoyed but was not satisfied. Only one creation could fill up the void.
Bone of my bones ,flesh of  my flesh, rib of my rib.
For a while joy filled his heart but forever he lost everything.
He called her Eve and his name was Adam.

A man once i knew, five times i have heard of
He fought many battles and won many wars.
Through the strength of his hands, the town was full of cripples and widows
No spear could pierce him,no sword could break his shield
He had the strength of many bears and roared louder than a lion.
No weapon fashioned against him could prosper except for one
fashioned by him.
His name was Samson and her name; Delilah..

He was black but he remained first for a long time.
White people wished he was white.
He was so skilled ,with his hands he made a fortune.
He was named after an animal but himself, was sweet as a bird.
He never roared, no lived in the Woods ..
It was until Tiger met a Cheetah.
His name was Tiger Woods

Written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved

follow me on twitter @hawulethu

the secret life of my father.....

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.

to share a story and send me feed back contact me on 083 768 6366 or email saxjaz7@yahoo.co.uk or follow me @ hawulethu@tweeter.

for the love of writing

he loved the witch..

In love with a witch.

They dragged her slowly as the whole village watched. No mercy was shown to her, no tear fell from her face only people looking and shouting ''guilty guilty" . A lady screams from the crowd ''die you witch die you witch'' . She raises the spirit of the people and they all shout ''die you witch die you witch'' . They want to rip her apart they want justice in their own hands. The kings guards protect her she is on her way to the gallows. Soon she will be dead, the village will celebrate and they will be at peace.

But from a distance one man stands, his heart is in pain and he mourns bitterly. The whole village says she is the witch. He knows her as his wife. They say every night she flies naked on a broom but he knows every evening she sleeps with her head on his chest. Last week they held her and accused her of killing and eating four children. Its been fourteen years they have been married and she has given him four children.

'She is my wife, my life, my love'' he says. ''She is the witch, a killer and she deserves to die'' says the villagers. They drag her to the guillotine and place her head withing the bases and the blade. She will die soon . Tears start falling from the man's eyes "it is true she is going to die'' he says. 

The blade falls she dies. ''Yeah the witch is dead'' the people rejoice. His heart bleeds he is not allowed to bury his loved one. He goes home to mourn. Who can judge a man when he is in love? Who can measure the depth of love? They called her a witch but he knew her as Estella the queen of his heart.

Love letters from Romeo

written by Hawulethu Dube

a saxjaz7 production

all rights reserved.

rolling in the deep..

lonely cold and teary i left her
silly foolish and proud i did not cherish her
the songs we sang together i forgot
we used to dance on 9th street and walk on 11th avenue
she cried more than she was happy
but the few moment she was happy it lasted a lifetime


i met her when i was young she was younger
she had a round nose and glittering eyes
her figure was so nice i used to say it took God five days to make her
she had sweet lips, her teeth white as snow while her breast soft as the rain
i remember the warmth of her arms and she will always fantasizes the comfort of my chest.
one night we fought she cried but all was gone when i tasted the sweetness of her lips
close to the theatre but far from the park thus where it all began


how did it end i am not sure
the yellow daises have turned blue
the red rose was pink
was it a love story?
was it just a fairy tale?
only time will tell the tale of love
but till then we wait..........................

letters from Romeo..

written by Hawulethu Dube
a saxjaz7 production
all rights reserved