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๐—ช๐—”๐—ฅ ๐—™๐—ข๐—ฅ ๐—ฃ๐—˜๐—”๐—–๐—˜?

๐—” ๐—Ÿ๐—ผ๐—ป๐—ด ๐—ง๐—ถ๐—บ๐—ฒ ๐—–๐—ผ๐—บ๐—ถ๐—ป๐—ด

WAR FOR PEACE?
When humanity makes
War for peace
Devoid of love
Hate
The human nuclear fusion powerhouse
Holds humanity survival
Hostage
In wait for one
Hot-nutted manโ€™s
Testicular explosion
To start
The 3rd World War
Blowing humanity
Into annihilation
No historian will write about

Thereโ€™ll be
No victors
To tell no story of
Humanity burnt to ashes
Blowing in
Nuclear fall-out clouds
Blanketing emaciated
Planet Earth
Across the universe lost meaning
Humanity done trampling the soil
To barrenness
For life
Climate change could never do
A better job

No more ambition
No more brains
No more curiosity
No more dreams
No more exploration
No more fantasy
No more games
No more idols
No more jubilations
Independence a thing
Of once upon a time
No audience
No storytelling
No more memories
No more sex
No more God
No more hallelujah
Jesus just a small boy
Crucified by his own
On track to
Humanityโ€™s self-annihilation pursuits

No more scriptures
Unholy
In shadows of fear

No more cathedrals
Acoustics for
Angelic song voices
Blown up
Into mushroom clouds

Nuclear bombs wars
For you
Baby

No more lies
No more fortunes
No more gold
No more diamonds and pearls
No more black gold
Or is it liquid gold
From beneath arid lands
From ocean floors
Beneath heavy waters
Running wild
Caught up in the money trap

Call it
The greenback
The Euro
The Kroner

The Rand and
The Ruble
Archaic
Imperial Russia revivalists
Untenable Marxism alliance
Workersโ€™ Revolution
Corruption-soiled pipedream
Might as well keep smoking opium
Afghan poppy, needless to say
Vodka-drunk
Drown in
Castle Lager pools
For the Indian Ocean
Mahatma Gandhi
Could have taught them
A lesson or two about
The way of peace
In social transformation

The Yen or
The Yuan
Oriental mystic
Incense stickโ€™
Smoke
Dazes Africa to
Sleep
In sweet-sour
Bloodless neo-imperialism yokes
Subtle
In Shaolin Kung Fu
Mastersโ€™ dances
No murderous visions
In Tai Chi meditation trances
Peaceful conquest
In the landmass of the wretched
Yogaโ€™s bhujangasana
Broke Africaโ€™s back
Chant: OM
Namaste

Land of the Rising Sun
Got a rude awakening
In World War 2
Yet, fools of the world
Donโ€™t wanna learn

America-induced blood baths
Flow in rivers of the world
In charred after-World War 3 world
Planet Earth shanโ€™t recall
What a river once was
Blood not even a concept

Yet, America wants to make
A mad man rule the world
Four more years
May be the last
The longest
The permanent
As in
Stillness state
The other side of
I canโ€™t breathe
Last breath

Nothingness lasts
When thereโ€™s
Nothing to breathe

See you
On the mythical other side
We meet as atomic particles
In nuclear fallout
Feeding on itself

Mankind finally equal
In a state of nothingness
Humanity obliterated
From planet earth
For nothing
When air to breathe
Is free for
All
Living creatures
Freedom is
All
About that

In wars for peace
It doesnโ€™t work
Like that
America
Ought to know better
Today

In the Middle East
We could still be
Living in Biblical times
Quick sanded in
The Old Testament
Fighting vicious battles
As old as
A thousand Methuselahs
In
Who wants to live forever mayhems
For life
To the last man
The Tigris didnโ€™t save
Saddam
Weapons of mass destruction
Are here for real
Today

World War 3 knocking
On heavensโ€™ doors
For the chosen ones
And they say
Heavenly God
Loves us all
Discrimination from
The source
When all are born sinners
According to
The Scriptures
Satanic hell is a place
Packed in nuclear warheads
Once they all strike
Weโ€™re all gonna roast
Right here on earth
No escape
NASA crumbled
Space-X grounded
Space travel
Gone with the inferno
Branson last said
Would star with virgins
In Battle Star Galactica
Bezos last seen in the Amazons
Blue in the face

Heaven can wait
Humanity come to an end
Closed chapter of
Creationโ€™s darkest story
No one to read
Creationโ€™s wasted expression
Of itself through man

No more power

Elon Musk: spaXced out
Gangsters: garroted
Trumpsters: magnetized
Fascists: suicidal
All burnt-up excrement
Like everyone else
Reduced to
Carbon dust particles
Polluting the universe

Lonesome planet earth
Rotating on its axis
Ever since creation
Indifferent to
Love or hate
Humanityโ€™s creation

They could have chosen
Love
Weโ€™d live happily
Forever and ever
In peace
Writing human history
Infinite
In all forms
Through the epochs

Letโ€™s
Make love
Not war
Futile cry of
Language impotentized
Falling on imploded eardrums
We write it down
In love letters
Immortalize it in books
Catalogue them in libraries
Of the world
Anyway
Might survive
The apocalypse

Make history
Be not
Beast of war
Grotesque
Be apex-dog of letters
Read history now
You just might
Save Humanity
๐—˜๐—ก๐——
ยฉSimon Chilembo 2024

SIMON CHILEMBO
OSLO
NORWAY
September 15, 2024

๐—Ÿ๐—ข๐—ฉ๐—˜ ๐—Ÿ๐—˜๐—ง๐—ง๐—˜๐—ฅ๐—ฆ ๐—ฃ๐—ข๐—˜๐—ง๐—ฅ๐—ฌ

๐—ช๐—›๐—˜๐—ก ๐—ช๐—ข๐—ฅ๐—ž ๐—ฆ๐—ฃ๐—”๐—ฅ๐—ž๐—ฆ ๐—–๐—ฅ๐—˜๐—”๐—ง๐—œ๐—ฉ๐—œ๐—ง๐—ฌ, ๐—ช๐—›๐—”๐—ง ๐——๐—ข ๐—ฌ๐—ข๐—จ ๐——๐—ข?

DISCLAIMER

I am not an employee of NAM (Nasjonalmuseet/ the National Museum of Art, Architecture, and Design). I work at NAM on behalf of an outsourced service provider, in which I have full-time employment. This presentation today is one of several literary creative inspirations that I have so far gotten whilst performing my formal duties at NAM. The presentation is unsolicited, and it is done with no inherent ulterior motives. It is done and delivered with but the best of intentions, without fear or favour. 

Neither NAM nor my employer can or must be directly nor indirectly associated with the thoughts, opinions, and sentiments I am going to express in this presentation. I alone am responsible for the contents herein. I hope, though, that the output shall be of a quality and standard that shall cause neither embarrassment nor disrepute for both NAM and my employer.

The inspirational moment, and its subsequent outcomes, i.e. poem, publication in a book, and the social media video recital here would have happened regardless of whether or not I worked at NAM. All that needed to happen was for my eyes to fall on the particular inspirational object. It could have been anywhere, at any time. It just happened to be at NAM, Oslo, on October 28th, 2022 this time around.

As I walk through, back and forth, round and around in my professional errands in the various public exhibition spaces in the museum, the vast variety of objects on display works my emotions and thoughts in phenomenal ways. Many a time I feel like I see myself floating in this boundaryless enclosure that is an intermingled environment of what Iโ€™ve gathered of ideas of heaven and hell. In this environment, the material and the conceptual are all merged into one new reality that defies human speech for description. The opposites as we know them on the earthly plane cancel out one another in this strange new reality. And it doesnโ€™t matter.

For example, in this temporary but recurring new reality, I donโ€™t see the environment as I do with my eyes distinguishing between normal light and darkness. The sensory organs donโ€™t work in the conventional way here. When I expect to hear a sound in my head, as from observing a painting depicting fire, somehow silence claims its space. Itโ€™s in conflicting but harmonic moments like these that I get lost in time and space.

And, in silent thunderous flashes of light, clouds of inspiration engulf my thoughts with darkness. Through this haze, I get to sense words in either written or spoken forms. In this state of mind, I lack a background upon which to base my experience of these words that I hear in what I perceive as silent sound in stationary motion. This is how my writings come to be. Preserving my sanity, thereby. I appreciate art for what its charming beauty and its irresistible goriness do to ever kindle my creativity. A work of art has not moved me if my response to it does not inspire an expressive textual idea in my head.

Immersed in the writing process, I do not create writing ideas from nothing. My writing ideas are stimulated through my responses and reactions to my actual interactions with events and attributes of my environments at any one time. It is not always that the writing idea shall be manifest at all. It is one thing to have an inspiration, and it is another to bring the inspiration to life โ€“ the mood, time, and space have to be right. That means that my literary output so far is only the tip of the iceberg concerning how much more I shall potentially produce. Every day I canโ€™t help but get several concrete inspirational moments stored in my creative database in my brain. Therefore, I work at the right place at the right time. I shall live to see my 1000th book published before Iโ€™m a hundred years old.     

Every piece of poetry, essay, or novel that I write helps me to hold my feet on the ground. The writing process cleanses my soul; it elevates my passion for living. This is so because, when I write, I get lost in a realm of being in which asking existential questions and finding functional answers are the imperatives for survival. This is the realm in which, with text, I get to materialize for life my dreams, my hopes, and fears. I am eternally grateful for the privilege of working at NAM for what immense value the workspaces add to my creativity.

Currently, and until January 14th, 2024, NAM has a major exhibition of some of the works of Harriet Backer. The exhibition is called Every Atom is Colour. Whenever Iโ€™m in the magnificent exhibition hall, I get a sense of a warm, safe, homely feeling. This is reminiscent of the better part of my formative years whilst attending school in Lesotho, 1965-69. I feel and see so much of my late maternal grandmotherโ€™s aura throughout the space.

Harriet Backer gives me a reassuring, here-and-now sensation in my entire being. I see myself walking into a bright future standing still with time in Harriet Backerโ€™s presence. This is much like seeing the visions of the kingdom of God that my grandmother used to tell me about. She used to say that I was a chosen child of God; when Iโ€™m grown up, Iโ€™d be king of my people. And, when I die, Iโ€™ll be headed to heaven, where Iโ€™ll sit on the right side of God, and live happily ever after. Amen!

Iโ€™m not quite ready to die yet. Heaven can wait.

I first met Harriet Backer in the northern spring of 2022, a few months before the official opening of NAM. Upon entering the room through its main entrance, I saw a portrait of a letter-reading girl hung up on the wall facing the entrance squarely from across the room. This was one of those love-at-first-sight moments that often make my heart sing throughout my body. The girlโ€™s enthralling beauty reminded me of a girl that I once knew as a growing-up boy-to-man in South Africa in the early 1970s.

Each time I entered the room Iโ€™d daydream about the many, many love letters Iโ€™ve written in my time. The girl in the portrait is there but not there at the same time. I could bring her to life in my fantasies, but I could never have her in the flesh, yet I love her all the same. Hopeless love.

In the same manner, the girls I used to write letters to in many parts of the world were there in my fantasies as I sat down and wrote. The fantasies would get wilder tortuous during the replies waiting phases, which could be weeks to months in those pre-internet days. Upon receiving even only one reply after the long wait, I used to curse my fantasies for failing to bring in the flesh these girls home to me. But I kept hoping that one day, it would happen. Iโ€™m keeping the dream of love alive in memories of some of the girls now dead.

Iโ€™ve met numerous other new girls since. We donโ€™t write letters these days. Social media and other modern communication platforms do the trick. But itโ€™s not the same. I guess thatโ€™s how it took about six months before the poem inspired by the letter-reading girl came forth.

One day, as I stepped into, the Harriet Backer room, I marvelled at the especially silently exuberant nonchalance of my beloved letter girl on that particular day. Thinking that I saw the painting moving like it was being pushed towards the door, I feared she was shutting me out for once. At the same time, I felt welcome as I confirmed that the painting was attached fast to its regular spot.

I realized, then, that I hadnโ€™t before thought about what the message in the letter could have been and from whom it may have come. I also realized that I had never gotten to look into her eyes since they were so fixed on the letter in her hands. Perhaps I should write her a letter, I thought. At that moment, then, I suddenly heard poetic words singing in my head; the poem Love Letter became the real-world outcome.

Before I read the poem, I have to make another disclaimer as I, in my words, describe what art is:

DISCLAIMER 2

I do not have any academic or professional training in art. My articulation of what art is a function of my laymanโ€™s instinctual appreciation of things beautiful against the ugly; both in the figurative and abstract manifestations as my senses perceive it in any given situation and space, at any given time. All I know is how to think and write, and write and think. Art is what I feel. If I feel it, I can think it. If I think it, I can write it. Writing is my art, my artistic expression. Writing is what I do; all attributable to my academic training 

I put it forward here that for creatives in regular employment, other than the pecuniary side of matters, the job will be worth it if it allows for the creative to thrive in their particular creative domains. 

That as implicit in the work nature, or, as is my current situation, the job characteristics, its location, and its operational spaces design facilitating my seeing things. The latter inspiring my literary creativity as an author and poet in my private capacity.

WORKPLACE OF BEAUTIFUL THINGS

People do from time to time visit museums of all kinds for all kinds of recreational, educational, and research reasons. I work at Norwayโ€™s Nasjonalmuseet. The institution has proved to be an awesome literary creativeโ€™s wet dream for me as an author and poet. I get at least one goosebumps moment each day I am at work. Tens of thousands of works of art are on display throughout the eighty-nine exhibition spaces at the museum. In all their widely variable expressive forms, these artworks move me in a way that ever fills me with love and joy like I have never experienced before. Working here is a privilege I am much grateful for.

At different points in all the exhibition spaces in the museum, there are rest stations comprising benches upon extensions of which are placed, amongst other items, wooden playing cards. The cards have various quizzes and games for the guests to have a go at as they sit and rest. I, together with Ole, a fine but ever condescending colleague young enough to be my grandson, happened to have been engaged in a discussion about various aspects of the museum when we approached one such station. Ole then unexpectedly reached out and randomly pulled out a card from the bench extension. It turned out to be a quiz card with the question: โ€˜What is Art?โ€™; creating a gotcha moment that I saw Ole revelling in.

Talking about Oleโ€™s gotcha moment, this was yet another one of those moments in which a person of European extraction comes to me with the pre-conditioned notion that Black people are not cultivated enough to appreciate the finer aspects of European culture. Anyhow, my immediate response in this case was, โ€œArt is the capturing of an experiential moment in time and space in order to, perhaps, tell a story about that experience in the future. This capture can be in any form or medium according to the proclivities and talents of the artist.โ€

Ole, โ€œI hear you. But you will have to elaborate more on all that you have just said!โ€ 

Seeing as we had to attend to each our respective duties at work then, I replied, โ€œI shall write an essay for you, then. Deal?โ€

            โ€œDeal!โ€

My definition of art shall be both conceptual and functional. Conceptually, I know art when I perceive it. I do not have to be told. I do not have to be instructed. I know art when my senses register it. Regardless of the representational form, the sentimental response that I get from experiencing any manifestation of art that I consider as beautiful is a constant. Conversely, an unattractive, unpleasant artistic form as I experience it emotionally affects me in the same way relevant to it irrespective of the form or the representational style.

Whenever I read a storybook (or even write one) that I enjoy, my breathing rate slows down, the total bodily relaxation I get gives me a wonderful warm feeling all over; I get goosebumps, and my palms get warmer and moist. This kind of feeling brings me immense joy. The dreamy state it gets me into sends me into a fantasy world of all things possible. If I had been, for one reason or another, going through hard times, this state brings hope home; it fills me with a sweet sense of freedom. In this state, I am invincible. This is my subjective domain for defining what beautiful art is for me as my perceptive senses โ€“ eyes, ears, skin, tongue, nose, intuition โ€“ register it, feed my hormonal system (feel-good hormones), and the latter instruct my nervous system to induce my being to act accordingly. Pure joy.

Whilst recognizing it for what it is, art that is repugnant to me is exactly that. If it makes me cringe, if it casts a shadow of pessimism over me, if it fills me with negative thoughts and associations, if it gives me a cold sweat, then it is bad art for me. There are times when I can see beauty in bad, ugly art, though. I think about the hands, or some other body parts, that created the work. Every hand shall tell its story according to its ownerโ€™s neuro-hormonal wiring and physical capabilities. One manโ€™s apparent gory art may be anotherโ€™s depiction of heaven. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Functionally, art is a conveyor of messages, a storyteller; a courier of generational narratives in humanityโ€™s dances with nature and itself over time. Art can be an instrument of change. Art can repair the once broken. Art can inspire hope, faith, trust, and love. To the extent that art is a personal expression, art may speak for its creator. Art creators have the potential to make or break society. Ask God, manโ€™s most divisive, master-of-carnage creation. God may have created man instead, her most complex work of art. The outcome is not any better.

Art is identity. Identity may be deception obscured in art. From the outset, art may be true by intent and purpose. But when human perception and interpretation of reality are as polychotomous as there are so many people on earth, art shall be true or fallacious as to the perceptive state

and cognitive capacity of the observer. Therein lies the mystique, the intrigue of art. Who am I? I am a man in love with art.

Art is some powerful stuff. Art is a human creative potential deserving to be handled with tender, loving care. At its best, art is an instrument of peace; art has the potential to stimulate reflection on the human condition. We rise, we fall; art captures all that. Art is beauty. Without beauty, life is not worth living.

Beauty moves humanity forward and higher on the scale of qualitative and quantitative improvements in life. It is not for nothing that nations of the world, interest organizations of all sorts and sizes, wealthy individuals, and many others invest heavily in the promotion, conservation, preservation, and storage of some of our most impactful of artworks over the epochs into the future. Art immortalizes human experience.

WHAT IS ART WORTH?

Your eyes see what they see. Your brains process your perceptions as to their inherent OS programming, i.e. the brain in concert with the hormonal system, which affects behaviour, ultimately influencing our decision or choice-making processes. Your expressive potential is manifest through your creative skills and particular materials and work tools preferences.

The expression of your observed reality or conjured fantasy isolated in your creative expression of choice shall, then, manifest the outcome we see as a work of art in its unique presentation that only you can tell it like it is. Itโ€™s up to the eye of the beholder to see or not to see the beauty, the function, and/or the worth of the work. 
Simon Chilembo, December 29, 2023

LOVE LETTER: A Poem

Iโ€™ll write you a letter
Etch my words on paper
If itโ€™s a crime to love you
Here is the evidence

My love for you
Is not
A judicial affair
For courtroom theatricals
For juriesโ€™ deliberations
For judgesโ€™ adjudications

Iโ€™ll etch portraits
Of my love for you
On canvas
Lock them in frames

Weโ€™ll want to meet again
The other side of
A thousand years ahead

Hanging on walls
In art museums
Of the world
For a billion eyes to see
I couldnโ€™t hide
My love for you
For your eyes
That could never see
My love for you
In plain sight
END
ยฉSimon Chilembo 28/10-2022

SIMON CHILEMBO
Oslo
Norway
January 07, 2024

ARE CHILDLESS MEN NOT REAL MEN?

Real Men Raise Their Children

Ever since my young adulthood years, I have been told to my face, or Iโ€™ve heard on various platforms numerous self-righteous people of various persuasions, social standings, and ages say stuff like a childless man is a worse man than a single, unmarried man. These people emphatically say that childless men, married or unmarried, deserve a worse punishment than death: they must stay alive; they must live through the worst possible suffering that God can inflict upon the living.

Furthermore, the anti-childless men people say that the fatherhood-shy men are lower than mules by social status; they are useful only as oxen are (beasts of burden), and must experience physical and mental pain unimaginable. That for failing to fulfil God’s glorious gift and obligation to man: propagation of the species. Single, unmarried men who are fathers might be forgiven, though.

Lastly, the pro-propagation people argue that humanity is the summation and manifestation of God’s ultimate creative potential. Through humanity, God defines her purpose. Humanity is the beginning and infinite expression of the power of God. Without humanity, the essence of God would cease, as would the entity herself. That would be the end of creation, the end of the universe.

I argue, however, that humanity actualizes creation and the universe for itself. Humanity exterminated would just as well render creation and the universe more relevant to other animal species. These have, or may have other terms of reference to nature beyond the comprehension of human cognitive capabilities. Therefore, God in all her multiple manifestations and interpretations across the world, and across the epochs, is but one of humanityโ€™s self-created survival tools. Humanity created God to assist itself in making sense of the complexities of the world and its pressures on humanityโ€™s existential challenges.

When the going gets tough, humanity prays to God, fights, murders itself, its own, and destroys the world, its home. God just loves it that way. Humanity makes weapons of destruction right under Godโ€™s nose. Iโ€™m convinced that the omnipresent God sits in every missile head fired in wars of the world. Wars must be God’s forms of a party; grooving in humanityโ€™s idiocy into self-extinction, Godโ€™s own bloody demise.

Name any apocalyptic war anytime any place, God is there; God will have been there. We have many more wars brewing for the future. It just got worse in the Middle East. Television moving pictures showed but two missiles of multitudes colliding in mid-air over there the other day.

Reporters said that one missile was launched from one land of a star, and the other missile from another land of a star. The collision gave rise to meteoric explosions. God torn apart fell to the ground in a million stars, burning everything on their path, scorching the earth. People dying crying, โ€œGod have mercy on us!โ€ Everyone crying murderous vengeance in the name of God in both lands of the stars. And the beat goes on for God. Oh, yes, the Gods must be crazy.  

In the Ukraine war, people are killed like hunter boys burning wild pigs on Trumpland streets. In fake-border-walls Trumpland, Black death bodies get riddled with bullets for their lives that donโ€™t matter in the eyes of White Supremacist lunatics playing war games whilst people are praying in houses of God.

The inadequate-balled killers donโ€™t spare children either. They spray bullets on children in school classrooms; them children in there only seeking enlightenment through learning how to read, write, and count. Trumpland set for extended ignoramocracy well into the future. Humanityโ€™s foolishness is boundless. Glory be to God. Amen.  

It is in the light of my argument above that I dismiss Godโ€™ supposed works as nothing but humanityโ€™s wishful thinking outcomes when they cannot solve their own problems, and experience their minuteness against the forces of nature. There is no God sitting somewhere above ever having sadistic fun cruelly punishing childless men.     

But the childless men condemners are relentless, uneducated fools. And they continue:
Men who are not contributing to the numerical growth of humanity defy God’s divine design for man; which is to go out and make children upon children for generations to ensure endless perpetuation of God’s relevance to man, if not creation in its entirety. As if God really cares.

Childless men present a possible extintification of God, notwithstanding it being as long a shot as can be. Woe betide these men. May they burn forever in hell should they die from the pain that God inflicts upon them for their horrendous transgression, anyhow.

God and his glory are forever. That for as long as men live up to their non-negotiable duty of unfailing baby seed planting in women. Those men defying God’s plan shall and must suffer all the indignities humanity can think of and apply upon them.

Culturally, childless men are irresponsible. They are selfish. They are respectless towards their ancestors. It is the duty of every tradition-abiding man to perpetuate not only his private lineage but, above all, that of his forefathers.

Men who do not produce children disrupt the growth and might of their clans, right up to the grand level of humanity as one, big family. Ancestral spirits do not take kindly to this state of affairs. Therefore, the ancestral spirits see to it that childless men shall be isolated, ridiculed, and abused in all sorts of dehumanizing ways.

When non-child-producing men die, they must never be afforded the same ritualistic honours that good, culturally-attuned, baby-prolific men would be. Were it possible, many a childless man would be made to vanish into thin air upon their demise. It’s just as well that the latter is not the case. Otherwise, the infertile dead men would pollute the rare air that the ancestral spirits breathe. The former exacerbating their already debilitating ill-fortuned existence, thereby. Childlessness is the worst abomination a man can endure, by the look of things. This is when I dump culture and God in the same ancient pit latrine of humanityโ€™s extremes of diabolic, psychopathic anal discharges.  

If I donโ€™t say it, or if no third party that is familiar with me says it, no one will know whether I have children or not. In fact, almost everyone that asks me about how many children I have gets surprised when I tell them that I donโ€™t have, and neither have I ever had any children of my own that I know of.

Everyone assumes that I shall have a number of children here and there. After all, as many often state, I am a fine, good-looking, strong man oozing attributes of an honourable man. That way immediately crushing the notion that childless men are not men if child production capacity is the definition of oneโ€™s being a real man of honour.

Others even go as far as to express their dismay at my childlessness given my apparently unfettered Valentino image. So much for my outgoing personality, discerning as I might be in more ways than one.  My extroverted nature feeds the fantasies and pre-conceived ideas about my observed manly socializing attributes. Therefore, to many that do not know me well, I ought to be the wildest womanizer around. Clearly, then, I donโ€™t need to father any child in order that my manhood qualities shall exude themselves with no fuss.

In my world, the definition of a man and his good is in his deeds as an agent of positive change for the good of society at large, no matter the extent and quality of his input. Making or not of children is not a deal breaker contribution because, as is the nature of sexually reproductive species, and with all things remaining equal, sexually mature men will make children upon mating with equally sexually mature women. However, itโ€™s not a given that every non-protected male-female sexual encounter will result in the impregnation of the woman.

Itโ€™s not a given that every pregnancy will culminate in the birth of a child either. Itโ€™s not a given that a successful birth will bring forth a healthy, safe and sound child. And itโ€™s not a given that the childโ€™s father will be there for them.

Were children made like bread, Iโ€™d have fathered a hundred of them already. At the least. And Iโ€™d be a good father to my children by being there for them from the time Iโ€™d know of their conception, throughout the post-natal developmental stages to adulthood until whenever Iโ€™d die.

That Iโ€™ve not had children of my own up to this point in my life has nothing to do with whether Iโ€™m a man or not by way of my fertility status. My potency as a man is known only by women who have carried my seed before. Otherwise, everyone else who doesnโ€™t know me that way had better shut the โ€˜fโ€™ up and leave me alone with my happy so-called childless way of life that causes no one any trouble.

All across the world today exist millions of fatherless children. Hundreds of thousands of children are born daily without their biological fathers in their midst. So-called real men rape and impregnate women in all sorts of circumstances, from street violence, domestic violence, to wars. So-called real men in positions of econo-politico privilege and power go on predatory rampages and take sexual advantage of and apathetically impregnate underprivileged, weak, and vulnerable women. Philanderers charm and impregnate women of all ages everywhere, every fucking day.

When the children are born, these lots of so-called real men, the childrenโ€™s fathers, are nowhere to be found. Many of the children grow up enduring much emotional and physical torment. They grow up with demeaning adjectives such as bastardes applied to describe them. I cringe whenever I hear a child being described as illegitimate for their absent father.

Looking at it from a laymanโ€™s perspective, it is atrociously insulting to call a child illegitimate.  That way even if the expression in man-made legal terms means that the child was conceived and born outside official wedlock. A human child born as such is a human being of flesh, bones, and blood like everyone else conceived from the mergence of human sperm and egg in a womanโ€™s body.

Sperm-egg fertilization occurs and develops into a zygote in the fallopian tubes. The zygote then gradually grows into a full physical human expression in the mother-to-beโ€™s womb over a nine-month period, assuming a normal, uneventful pregnancy. Itโ€™s, therefore, also grossly distasteful, and disrespectful to the woman to have her children labelled as illegitimate. This demeans motherhood, a state of being worthy of respect by all men alive.

Writing in the Morocco World News online publication of September 12, 2017, journalist ๐—”๐—บ๐—ฎ๐—น ๐—•๐—ฒ๐—ป ๐—›๐—ฎ๐—ฑ๐—ฑ๐—ฎ posted an opinion with the title ๐—™๐—ฎ๐˜๐—ต๐—ฒ๐—ฟ๐—น๐—ฒ๐˜€๐˜€ ๐—–๐—ต๐—ถ๐—น๐—ฑ๐—ฟ๐—ฒ๐—ป ๐—”๐—ฟ๐—ฒ ๐—ก๐—ผ๐˜ ๐—œ๐—น๐—น๐—ฒ๐—ด๐—ถ๐˜๐—ถ๐—บ๐—ฎ๐˜๐—ฒ. Citing her in part, she presented her case that โ€œChildren born out of wedlock are usually called โ€˜illegitimateโ€™, โ€˜bastards,โ€™ and โ€˜sons and daughters of adultery,โ€™ and are often treated unfairly. They are seen as a source of shame and dishonour by traditional societies.

โ€œBeing a fatherless child in Morocco is nearly a lifelong condemnation. Article 446 of the Moroccan Jurisprudence describes โ€˜any person born outside marriage [as] a bastard; whether he is recognized by his biological father or not.โ€™

โ€œWhy should innocent children suffer the consequences of an act that they did not commit? How can a justice system deprive children from their fathers only because they were conceived outside marriage?โ€

From a religious perspective, Amal Ben Hadda argues further that โ€œIn the Quran, fatherless children should be first assigned to their biological fathers if they are identified, otherwise society should treat them fairly as normal children, with no stigmatization or segregation.

โ€œ[โ€ฆ] Muslim societies should fulfil their obligations towards abandoned and fatherless children. As per the Quran, the first step that should be taken is to identify the biological father and to assign his name to his child. All kinds of discrimination and social segregation should be banned, as it is morally reprehensible to stigmatize fatherless children. The term โ€˜illegitimateโ€™ is in itself a discrimination against defenceless human beings.โ€

The expression fatherless child is also a misnomer. This is because it linguistically cancels the presence of a male personโ€™ sperm in the childโ€™s conception process. Womenโ€™s eggs donโ€™t fertilize themselves, neither in the body nor in the test tube. It’s only Maria who could be impregnated with the wind; a miracle only performed by God, who doesnโ€™t know crap about sexual reproduction: fhhhhhโ€ฆ., let there be a child! And, voila, Jesus was born. No living man is God. No child is fatherless.

A normal manโ€™s and a normal womanโ€™s reproductive materials combine, internally or externally. That subsequently produces, all things remaining equal, a physically and physiologically normal human baby that will, hopefully, grow up normally into normal adulthood of, amongst other things, normal human sexual reproduction indulgences with the opposite sex.

This child will have the same cravings and needs for food, shelter, parental, and societal protection, as well as tender loving care, and much more; just like everyone else. These are basic Human Rights aspects we are all entitled to regardless of our parentageโ€™s civil status at the time of our conception and eventual birth. Itโ€™s not as if children just show up from the blues unsolicited and impose themselves upon their chosen will-be parents.

Now, thatโ€™s what could be termed an illegitimate act of unilateral personal imposition by a stranger upon an innocent, unsuspecting, and/ or possibly unwilling couple. That in itself not denying the childโ€™s legitimacy as a human being. Which further explains, for example, the prevalence of rigidities of child adoption laws in many nation states. Therefore, it defies logic that some unfortunate children are still labelled as illegitimate in the 21st Century, the age of superlative, ever expanding human knowledge that ought to inspire more empathy in the world.

As a rhetorical observation, it would be interesting to know how the often absent, extra-marital prolific so-called real men think and feel about their so-called illegitimate children out there somewhere in the world. Itโ€™s no wonder, then, that, on the other hand, there are in the world today millions of other men who consciously choose not to father any children under any circumstances, if they can help it.

Indeed, I do not have any children of my own that I know of. I truly hope that there is no child I have unknowingly fathered that is walking up and down the streets of the world bearing the abhorrent illegitimate child tag on their person. Iโ€™ve never been keen to want to have children when Iโ€™ve never been keen on marriage. Iโ€™ve never been keen on marriage to the extent that Iโ€™ve never felt emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and, most decisively, durably economically adequate for it. No wealth, no wife-and-kids for me. Simple.

Iโ€™ve more than once been in near husband-and-wife relationships in which I was relatively an economic underdog. I was, by extension, considered to be intellectually deprived and culturally inferior. Disaster. Iโ€™m not interested in being with poor women, either. It is what it is.   

The difficulties of children growing up without their fathers being present in their lives, for whatever reasons, struck me already from an early age whilst growing up in South Africa in the 1960s to the mid-1970s. Much as did the rough times of those fathers that also longed to be with their absent children but, for variable and unique individual reasons, had limited, if no access at all to their children, wherever they were in the Southern African sub-continent.

By the time I got to Zambia as a mid-teenage aspirant young man in 1975, I had already long taken the personal stand that I would never want to have any children of my own if my life circumstances are that being there for them would be a complicated socio-economic matter. Such continues to be the state of my life as I live it today: a happy, economically barely surviving free man of the world with much love for women and children. Nevertheless, soon Iโ€™ll have my lasting millions back. Iโ€™ll then marry my ten-women-in-one woman, my Super Lady. Weโ€™ll make a hundred-children-in-one-to-x-number-of-children and live happily ever after as one big-together family.

I find it ironic that some of my meanest critics for my current wilful childless existence are real men who, both knowingly or unknowingly, have fathered, and unabashedly continue to father countless children all over the place. If there are dogs of war whose occupation is to travel the world, go out to shoot and bomb enemy people and leave them for the dead, these critics of mine here are dogs-of-pussy who father children everywhere, and leave them for the dead. I have little regard for these kinda fools. I have this vile thought in my head that some of these abandoned children could someday find these negligent fathers of theirs. The children should, then, castrate the men in revenge for themselves, and vengeance for their estranged mothers. Poetic justice served.

But I am more concerned about the existential conditions of children growing up without their fathers in their lives. My concern is regardless of the circumstances that lead to, or have led to the fathersโ€™ absence. I wish that people could bang their heads against the walls more for ideas as to how to better living conditions of all children of the world, especially those that are deprived of the presence of their biological fathers in their midst.

Society has more to gain from taking care of underprivileged children of the world in need of love, care, and protection here and now. Speaking for myself, I know that I have in my time directly played a much-appreciated father figure role for many a child, so-called fatherless or not, across the world. I havenโ€™t had a need to have a pigsty for a playing field full of piglets for children to know how to be a decent human being who understands fully the importance of adults being there for children. Particularly so their own blood children once they, the adults, have become parents themselves.

Childless as I may be, I can with confidence, pride, and dignity state that I am a good father figure and male role model for children and youth. Prove me wrong, if you can. Simple. Go and raise your own children and let me be. I have books to write. I have money to kill. There is a future mother of my children awaiting me in the horizon yonder. And thatโ€™s my case alone to deal with.

In the meantime, I absolutely do not wish to be a conscious contributor to the ever growing and infuriating statistics of the so-called fatherless, or illegitimate children of the world. The living conditions of the vast majority of these children represent an aspect of being human that I find debasing my humanity as a man.

I care profoundly about the well-being of children the world over. Therefore, when some ignoramus knowing no shit about me comes out to criticise, judge, and ridicule me for having no children of my own, I not only get upset, I hurt deep inside. The hurt is out of the apparent trivialization of the values that I hold as the upright man I strive to be always.

My values shape the stands that I take in relation to critical personal choices that I make in my never-ending aspirations and efforts to be a decent human being in a world immersed in hate and human self-annihilatory tendencies. In all this, Iโ€™m ever conscious of the confines of the generally accepted, life-supporting norms and laws of the land wherever I find myself.

A Google search of fatherless children produces tonnes of academic research, hobby or professional societal conditions commentaries, special socio-politico interests organizations findings and reports, and much more information and ideas material on the harsh realities of children growing up without their fathers present in their lives. I shall list a few select links below at the end of the presentation.

As a global phenomenon, regardless of race, colour, religion, creed, political orientation, or sexual orientation, the significance of a father in a childโ€™s life is generally recognized by all. This is a general starting and guiding principle before the vast constellation of complications of human relations culminating in the existence of fatherless children. Argument presentational style bias according to the sourceโ€™s background granted, the general consensus, for example, is that [Source: South African online newspaper Daily Maverick, June 14, 2023]:

  • [โ€ฆ] Children are at much greater risk of being victims of violence if they grow up in father-absent families. Girls in particular are more likely to get involved in abusive or exploitative relationships, and boys could go on to become perpetrators of violence, including gender-based violence, themselves. Growing up with a positively involved father, however, reduces these risks, and helps to nurture long-term violence prevention strategies.
  • [โ€ฆ] While substance abuse has many complex causes, teenagers with absent fathers have been shown to be a high-risk group โ€” boys in particular. Children are also likely to follow in their fatherโ€™s footsteps if he battles with substance abuse. With a supportive father present, these issues dissipate, and children are generally less prone to substance abuse, and the related issues of addiction, depression and suicide.
  • [โ€ฆ] Absent fathers can exacerbate depression, anxiety and mental health disorders in children, and worsen their academic performance. When fathers are involved in a positive way, on the other hand, childrenโ€™s mental health improves. They have greater faith in their own value, tend to do well at school, and are able to form secure attachments as they grow.      

The Daily Maverick article quoted above says further that โ€œAccording to the Human Sciences Research Council, most children in South Africa โ€” over 60% โ€” donโ€™t live with their biological fathers. And 20% only have contact with their biological father twice a week โ€ฆโ€ 

Another South African online newspaper, IOL, reported on October 5, 2019, that โ€œThe General Household Survey 2018 by Stats SA revealed that, 43.1 percent of children lived only with their mothers while a much smaller percentage (3,3%) of children lived only with their fathers in 2018 โ€ฆ [Furthermore] โ€ฆ Research conducted by the Human Sciences Research Council (HSRC) and the South African Race Relations Institute (SARRI) over a period of 5 years showed that 60% of SA children have absent fathers. More than 40 percent of South African mothers are single parents.โ€

In the UK, Fathers4Justice states that โ€œNearly 4 million children are fatherless in the UK. (Office of National Statistics)โ€

Whereas in the USA, Fatherhood.org reports that โ€œAccording to the U.S. Census Bureau, 18.4 million children, 1 in 4, live without a biological, step, or adoptive father in the home.*

Thatโ€™s enough children to fill New York City twice or Los Angeles four times over.

Research shows that a father’s absence affects children in numerous unfortunate ways,
while a father’s presence makes a positive difference in the lives of both children and mothers.
*U.S. Census Bureau. (2022). Living arrangements of children under 18 years old: 1960 to present. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Census Bureau.)

Fathers.com presents data that shows that โ€œโ€ฆ children from fatherless homes are more likely to be poor, become involved in drug and alcohol abuse, drop out of school, and suffer from health and emotional problems. Boys are more likely to become involved in crime, and girls are more likely to become pregnant as teens.โ€

With relevant references detailed in the article immediately above, the organization lists six of the many ills associated with fatherlessness as follows:

  1. POVERTY
    – Children in father-absent homes are almost four times more likely to be poor. In 2011, 12 percent of children in married-couple families were living in poverty, compared to 44 percent of children in mother-only families.
    – Children living in female-headed families with no spouse present had a poverty rate of 47.6 percent, over 4 times the rate in married-couple families.
  2. DRUG AND ALCOHOL ABUSE
    – [โ€ฆ] Fatherless children are at a dramatically greater risk of drug and alcohol abuse [โ€ฆ]
    – There is significantly more drug use among children who do not live with their mother and father.
  3. PHYSICAL AND EMOTIONAL HEALTH
    – A study of 1,977 children age 3 and older living with a residential father or father figure found that children living with married biological parents had significantly fewer externalizing and internalizing behavioural problems than children living with at least one non-biological parent.
    – Children of single-parent homes are more than twice as likely to commit suicide.
  4.  EDUCATIONAL ACHIEVEMENT
    – Children in grades 7-12 who have lived with at least one biological parent, youth that experienced divorce, separation, or nonunion birth reported lower grade point averages than those who have always lived with both biological parents.
    – Children living with their married biological father tested at a significantly higher level than those living with a nonbiological father.

    –  Father involvement in schools is associated with the higher likelihood of a student getting mostly Aโ€™s. This was true for fathers in biological parent families, for stepfathers, and for fathers heading single-parent families.

    – 71% of high school dropouts are fatherless; fatherless children have more trouble academically, scoring poorly on tests of reading, mathematics, and thinking skills; children from father-absent homes are more likely to be truant from school, more likely to be excluded from school, more likely to leave school at age 16, and less likely to attain academic and professional qualifications in adulthood.
  5. CRIME
    – Adolescents living in intact families are less likely to engage in delinquency than their peers living in non-intact families. Compared to peers in intact families, adolescents in single-parent families and stepfamilies were more likely to engage in delinquency. This relationship appeared to be operating through differences in family processesโ€”parental involvement, supervision, monitoring, and parent child closenessโ€”between intact and non-intact families.

    – A study using data from the National Longitudinal Study of Adolescent Health explored the relationship between family structure and risk of violent acts in neighbourhoods. The results revealed that if the number of fathers is low in a neighbourhood, then there is an increase in acts of teen violence. The statistical data showed that a 1% increase in the proportion of single-parent families in a neighbourhood is associated with a 3% increase in an adolescentโ€™s level of violence. In other words, adolescents who live in neighbourhoods with lower proportions of single-parent families and who report higher levels of family integration commit less violence.

    – Children age 10 to 17 living with two biological or adoptive parents were significantly less likely to experience sexual assault, child maltreatment, other types of major violence, and non-victimization type of adversity, and were less likely to witness violence in their families compared to peers living in single-parent families and stepfamilies.

    – A study of 109 juvenile offenders indicated that family structure significantly predicts delinquency.
  6. SEXUAL ACTIVITY AND TEEN PREGNANCY
    – A study using a sample of 1409 rural southern adolescents (851 females and 558 males) aged 11 โ€“ 18 years, investigated the correlation between father absence and self-reported sexual activity. The results revealed that adolescents in father-absence homes were more likely to report being sexually active compared to adolescents living with their fathers.

    – Being raised by a single mother raises the risk of teen pregnancy, marrying with less than a high school degree, and forming a marriage where both partners have less than a high school degree.

CONCLUSION

This has not been a presentation to promote a cause. Neither has it not been my intention to moralize with this presentation. Nor have I intentionally sought to hangout and/ or judge anybody. I have striven to be as objective as humanely possible in my writing this presentation; especially so given the enduring emotional abuse Iโ€™m ever subjected to as a childless man. By choice.

If I had anything I wished to address myself to, it is the pathetic ignorance, nauseating double standards, and pitiful awe towards me of my critics. Many of these shameless, psychosomatic critics of mine neatly fall under the dogs-of-pussy category Iโ€™ve mentioned earlier on in the presentation.

The idea is to inform and teach. Hoping that the reader/ listener shall know me better and, thus, be in a more enlightened state in their subsequent choice to either nail me on the cross, or celebrate me for my being who I am, living my life as I do. I am a free spirit with no fear for the unknown contra my personal integrity; I have nothing to hide. That said, other than the personally fulfilling irrepressible urge to educate, Iโ€™m under no obligation to explain, defend, and justify myself to any fool for my private life-style choices. However, Iโ€™ll happily respond to well-intended queries about how and why I live my life in the way that I do, given where in the world I live at any time.

Meanwhile, the so-called friends and relatives wishing to cancel me for my unconventional way of life as relates to having wife and kids, may do so now. Good riddance. Thatโ€™s all they can do for their own good. They cannot oppress me in any way. I am not afraid of them at any level.

I know that there are many more voluntary or involuntary childless men and women everywhere. Some are afraid and voiceless because of the extremely oppressive sociocultural conditions under which they live in their respective parts of the world. Beyond my desire to inform and teach, I hereby speak some more for the tormented, the afraid, and the voiceless. This is simply because I can.      

And lastly but not least, I wish, with profound humility and admiration, to acknowledge the millions of single-parent mothers of the world throughout the ages. Against the meanest odds, many of these suffering single-parent mothers manage to birth and raise children that eventually grow up to be high-bar, across-the-board decent human beings that are a joy and gift to the world.

One of these single-parent mothers gave birth to and raised a ๐๐จ๐ญ๐ก๐ข๐ง๐  ๐‚๐จ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐š๐ซ๐ž๐ฌ ๐ญ๐จ ๐˜๐จ๐ฎtype fine gentleman who has remained my best friend and brother-from-another-mother since we first met at school in January, 1977. He was then a 12-year-old boy-to-man with more brains and refined social skills higher than those of many a 21-year-old young man I know to this day; I was 17-years-old myself. Living in separate continents today, engaged in each our own unique vocational occupations, and living our separate lives as grown-up men, walking into the future together with Anele is a never-ending blessing. Thanks to our beloved Mimmi, the most inspiringly resilient single-parent mother I know.

Through Anele, I salute all the survivor, achiever, change-maker, ruler children of single-parent mothers of the world. One of these remarkable children, Barack Obama, broke all the barriers and prejudices of all kinds to become president of the United States of America. Despite its flaws, the country remains the most powerful nation on earth today.

Barack Obama effectively becoming the most powerful man in the world for eight years is a humongous feat that has inspired a whole generation of children and youth throughout the world. Hope, faith, love, tenacity, and the future live in those that have the capacity and will to overcome difficult life outcomes due to the absence of their biological fathers, if not any other supportive male figure in their lives. The slogan Yes, We๐˜๐ž๐ฌ, ๐–๐ž ๐‚๐š๐ง Can rings in my head.

The so-called fatherless, illegitimate children are as legitimately children of the future as any other child. The future belongs to us all in the present. The past may have dealt us unfair hands in the form of unworthy fathers, but we all deserve a fair chance at enjoying and shaping what the future promises us all. Real men walk into the future along with theirs, and all other children of the world.

Of course, there are millions of estranged men across the world who, for various reasons the analysis of which is beyond the scope of this presentation, are directly denied the opportunities to be there for, if not with their children. I feel for these men, many of whom do genuinely yearn to be with their children but are ever hindered by circumstances they do not have control over. Even then, as Iโ€™ve already stated above, I have little empathy for libido drunk philanderers and dogs-of-pussy who care but little of whether or not they leave children behind in their sex escapades all over the world.

As for me, I continue with awaiting the future mother of my children to find me. If she can. If she wants to. The quality of my manliness transcends the need to go around making non-attached babies with anything thatโ€™s child-bearing. I live for extra-ordinary things. Iโ€™m inspired by extra-ordinary things that the arts and science do for human progress throughout the epochs, for the good and bad.

Human life in all its physical and esoteric aspects is as extra-ordinary as can be. To the extent that the extra-ordinary is defined from human experience terms, the extra-ordinary begins and ends with human life. Procreation of human life is not an extra-ordinary phenomenon, or achievement. Human life will happen, anyway; extra-ordinarily enough. In mortal human terms, the quintessentially extra-ordinary about human life and the state of being a progressively functional human being, is in the capacity and willingness to not only create life, but in the nurturing of it. Therefore, you are an โ€˜fโ€™-ng real man, you make children, you raise them. Simple. I rest my case.       

DEATH TO SINGLE MEN is the video Iโ€™ve posted earlier on. Watch it in order to see more how my choice to not have children connects with my views on marriage.  

SIMON CHILEMBO
OSLO
NORWAY
30.08.-11.11.2023
Tel.: +4792525032

   

     

 

๐—˜๐—ก๐—˜๐— ๐—œ๐—˜๐—ฆ ๐—œ ๐——๐—ข๐—กโ€™๐—ง ๐—ž๐—ก๐—ข๐—ช

๐—œ๐—Ÿ๐—Ÿ๐—จ๐—ฆ๐—œ๐—ข๐—ก๐—ฆ ๐—œ๐—ก ๐— ๐—ฌ ๐—ช๐—ข๐—ฅ๐—Ÿ๐——, ๐—ฃ๐—ฎ๐—ฟ๐˜ ๐Ÿฎ

I dedicate this presentation here to my late beloved mother, who died five years ago on October 7th, 2018. May her soul continue resting in eternal power. On Monday, October 2nd, 2023, my mother would have turned 83 years old. Happy posthumous birthday, Machona Mother โ€“ Shebeen Queen dearest!

When as a child growing up in South Africa up to the age of 14ยฝ years I was in various spaces hassled for my Blackness and other envied personal attributes, my mother instilled in me a fierce sense of pride and personal integrity. She constantly told me how beautiful I was, and that, as my academic performance demonstrated time after time at that time, I was the most intelligent kid around. I believed her, and, with humility and gratitude, Iโ€™ve aimed to live her words since then: beautiful, intelligent man that thrives amongst other beautiful, intelligent people.    

August month, 2023, marked the 35th anniversary of my stay in Norway. The tangible plan I had upon leaving Zambia, my fatherland, in June, 1988, was that Iโ€™d complete the 3ยฝ yearsโ€™ post-graduate business studies programme I had privately secured for myself, with a little help from my friends. Afterwards Iโ€™d then move on out to the bigger, wide, wide world.

Twelve years was the timespan that I had given myself that when subsequently big and strong with an Economics PhD degree and international big business and global technocracy experience clutched under my armpits, Iโ€™d then return to South Africa, land of my birth, and become the countryโ€™s Reserve Bank Governor. I had the earth moving under my feet; what could stop me, then? What could go wrong?

The accompanying supportive Norwegian State Education Loan Fund scholarship offer was the first to come my way. I accepted it without second thoughts because I just had to get out of Zambia at the earliest opportunity. This was a matter of both ambition and the nearly untenable personal living conditions in extremely hard family and national survival environments at that time.

That Iโ€™d somehow ultimately stay in Norway for a longer period, not in the least permanently, was never even an iota of an idea in my head. Dream of America calling, Baby. In January, 1991, towards the end of the business studies programme, a bureaucratic glitch led to my ceasing to receive financial support from the scholarship fund. I was left with a huge debt in tuition fees and other costs to the school. Indefinite termination of my studies at the school became unavoidable. This was the beginning of my economic dire straits that would last at least five years in this first cycle. As fate would have it, Iโ€™d fall in love with a sweet Norwegian woman during this time.

In the meantime, I had opened and had been running two Karate schools in Oslo since my arrival in 1988. Thatโ€™s how I got to stay in Norway to this day. Both love and Karate no longer rule my life in Norway. But Iโ€™m still here; largely because of the joys, trials, and tribulations that the love and Karate exposed me to in the country. I experienced the joys, I wanted more and more. Norway delivered; I got addicted to the land.

I having been overwhelmed by difficult circumstances beyond my control, once unleashed, the trials and tribulations were ruthless. Under the hardships of life in Norway, Iโ€™ve seen many a lesser man from the African Diaspora spiritually buckle, fall, rise, and walk dead. All faith gone, no hope, neither mental nor physical strength left, they die. Literally. I decided that if I fall, I shall fall. But I would never die. I didnโ€™t travel more than half the world to let problems of life kill me so far away from home. One way or another Iโ€™d find a way to rise again; just I can breathe. I could never return neither to Zambia nor South Africa poor and without a business PhD degree. Never.

Indeed, I fell once; I fell a second time. On the third fall I lost everything, including face. My people networks collapsed. For once left alone, Rockstar popularity dissipated, I got the opportunity to be better acquainted with myself as a grown-up man. I saw clearly my dreams, my potential in life. I became my bestiest bestie. Now I know myself well. Better than ever. My self-knowledge trip gets better and better and more rewarding each and every new day that comes and goes.

I got to understand that my social survival navigator skills by way of my sellable talents may be many, but the relevant shall come forth and carry me through only specific situational needs in order to respond accordingly to given conditions in different epochs and spaces. The constant steering ethos being my personal motto of change, win, adapt, or die.

Iโ€™ve learned to change perspectives, acquire new skills sets, and adopt varying modus operandi to ensure victory in the face of adversity, no matter how long it takes. This knowledge also helps me to take to the next level what I already know and works in my favour presently. Concurrent with applicable talents, the ability to adapt to, and flow with the currents of changing or changed circumstances is a powerful tool for success for me. I have yet to die. I might talk about death on the other side, should I die.

Whilst recovering from the major fall following the devastating personal economy knock that I got from the Global Financial Crisis of 2007-2008, I had fully embraced the idea that all I had to do was to chill and wait for my next big break. I had suffered enough. I had learned more about myself and the ways of the world to know that I had to stay alert, fresh, and strong for the impending big break; whatever it would be, wherever it would take me, and whatever it would do with me.

It was a painful wait. Much reading, thinking, and writing rechannelled the emotional and mental torment to the enhancement of my creative potential as a writer. If I can read about it, I can write about it; tell a story about it in my own words.

If I can write about it, I can deconstruct it; I will better comprehend the challenges, I will see solutions. If I can write about it, I can dream. If I can dream, I can hope. My faith is shaped in the messages of my dreams. My writings tell the story that everythingโ€™s gonna be alright ahead. Keep moving.  

I have been through so many personal falls and rises that I know when an opportunity for my self-reinvention is nigh. The feeling of anticipation I get in times like these is like no other. I become larger than life in my thoughts so that when the opportunity for me to rise again arrives I wonโ€™t lose control of my sensibilities.  

Whilst I had visions of yet another multi-million-dollar international trade business venture, as the book writing inspiration suddenly revealed itself one fine morning in August, 2015, I knew that my real calling had finally come home. I got into a frenzy. Feeling like one possessed by the spirits of our greatest ever historical and contemporary world authors, I went on to write the first of my dream-of-one-thousand-plus books before I turn 100 years old.

The debut novel, When the Mighty Fall โ€“ rise again mindgames, I wrote in fourteen days. It became about the story of my first twenty-five years in Norway presented in a semi-autobiographical, or fantasy memoir format. Intense emotions and scenes arise in the book: boundaries are pushed and crossed; limitations are overcome, people reset themselves and their lives, stereotypes are crushed. All played out by at least equally intense and exceptional characters. The book has changed my life; it has made me a better person. It started the process by which I continue to learn and understand humanity and our universe better the more I write and think, and think and write.

Working with the book from the start, and living with the variable impacts it continues to have on its readers are a constant, in real-time steep learning curve. I guess itโ€™s a mark of a significant book when the author gets a mixed bag of strong reactions from the readers. Acquire and read the book for yourself so that you can make your own conclusions. Love or hate me as you wish; it is your prerogative in a free world. If you wish to destroy me for your hate, I wonโ€™t take you lying on my back.

My embracing this book writing calling of mine was with a clear awareness that my works would never be appreciated by all. Iโ€™ve in my life read more than enough books to appreciate that fact well. Iโ€™ve over the years come across numerous literary critiques on various media also. What has shocked me, though, is the gross misinterpretation of my thoughts and intentions in and with the aforementioned book. This has been especially so given that it is the least expected section of my readership that has been thoroughly brutal in their condemnation of me and the book. Perhaps this makes the point for writers knowing about their actual and potential target readers. However, as for me, to the extent that I so far write personally inspired factual and fictional narratives as opposed to formal academic, or professional literature, I in principle write for myself. I could never write if I went around thinking about who my readers are, or shall be, and how they will judge my works eventually.  

Working clandestinely, my aforementioned brutal critics, on utterly wrongful, naรฏve conjectures, have gone around tarnishing my reputation in Norway. People read my books. In their readings they come face-to-face with demons they conjure for themselves. They panic; lose it. They judge and punish me without a trial. Pathetic.

Because my conscience is clear, and because of my resolute dedication to growing and developing my creative writing talent and occupation to the 1000th book and beyond, the hurt and emotional turmoil I initially felt are gone. Iโ€™m healed. Iโ€™m strong. Iโ€™m on the rise again, destined for higher and higher heights of success than ever. Iโ€™ve written eight more books since the When the Mighty Fall publication. Iโ€™m on the roll; right on track. No one, nothing can stop me.

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2021

Travelling from Lusaka back to Oslo with Qatar Airways two weeks ago, it was on the first leg of the trip, Lusaka-Doha, that I took time to take a deep dive into reflections of my highs and lows in Norway over the years. I couldnโ€™t help but dwell upon encounters with some really bad people that have always been there to hinder my climb to success in the things that I do by way of making a living in the country. The bad people were in total contrast to the loving and caring ones that I met during my short family matters visit in Lusaka, from August 20-29, 2023.

These bad people have striven to ever hamper my genuine efforts to work to be a decent human being with a well-intended commitment to my personal aspiration of adding value to society to the extent that Iโ€™m resourceful and productive. Some have been outright about their dislike of, and disdain for me. I can live with that.

Others have turned out to be Judases in the end. A sickening lot that once ranked high as confidants in my world. These provoke my primordial survival instincts when I consider that they are ever gathering somewhere conniving to micro-assassinate me slowly. A mission I could never allow them the pleasure of achieving. Unless I am overtly potentially or actually caused bodily harm, I am not likely to resort to violence as an immediate self-preservation recourse. However, my warrior creative spirit observes, or experiences and analyses everything.

I apply different writing styles as dictated upon by the moments when I celebrate or decry events around me, both near and distant. I do the same with uplifting or destructive actions specifically directed towards me. That way I get to vent out my frustrations and anger without spilling a drop of blood. Then I can sustain my sense of personal safety and integrity in the face of adversity; irrespective of whether the adversity is overt or discreet. My words are my armour.

The poem Iโ€™m going to read came forth during the process of thinking about the latest Judases, wolves in sheepโ€™s clothing that have emerged with their true colours in the dark in recent years. It is a self-preservation, protest poetry piece. This poem also sets my eyes on October 24th, 2023, which will mark the fifth year of my return to Norway after a five-year creative exile in South Africa.

Aware that my enemies had already drawn their swords to slay me, I felt like I had brought myself into the mythical lionsโ€™ den at my arrival in Oslo. But I knew I was blameless contra the enemiesโ€™ smear campaign against me. Iโ€™m grandson of a Daniel, father of my mother. The Biblical Daniel was โ€œโ€ฆ saved from lions by the God of Israel “because I was found blameless before him” (Daniel 6:22). So, Iโ€™m still intact; standing tall, breathing happy and free, crafting words into literary expressions in my efforts to make sense of my world.

Similar to other writings of mine addressing my personal life conditions and states of being owing to simply being who I am and the personal choices that I make all the time, Iโ€™ve written the poem not out of a need to defend, explain, or justify myself. I do not seek any validation nor accolades from some Jacks and Jills anywhere either. I listen only to my teachers, to men and women of authentic benevolence: proven mediums of global human excellence, love and peace.

I primarily write to purify my soul, ease my pains, and fortify my spirit. I write as a good-intentions, free, have-no-fear spirit with nothing to hide in a free world. I feel good about what I do; I know Iโ€™m good at it. And thatโ€™s all that matters to me. It is what it is. I am that I am. Take me, or leave me as it is your prerogative in your free world. 

I publicise my works in response to what I feel to be a higher call to share my thoughts with those that want to hear my words. This call inspires me to aspire to teach and to speak for the young, the weak and vulnerable: the afraid, the oppressed, the voiceless. That from my life experiences as lived-in moments in time. Also as learned from hearing the voices of others that are much wiser than me.

The wiser than me being my teachers across the board, including some of the most impactful historical and contemporary philosophical and spiritual wells of wisdom of the world. All from one-on-one teachings and discussions with the living, or through consumption of the wiseโ€™ thoughts through the variety of multimedia platforms available in our times: from the written word in books, to sight, sound, and motion presentations in live theatres; on cinema, television, and computer screens.

Thanks to the power of the internet, we today have the said multimedia platforms compressed and collapsed into the palms of our hands via mobile telephone technology. Knowledge acquisition and dissemination of the same, verification of facts and propagation of truths, debunking of falsities and crushing of conspiracy theories, are all at the tips of our fingers these days. Therefore, those that manage and live their lives on unchecked assumptions; uninformed, factually fallacious decision-making tendencies do so at their own peril.       

ยฉSimon Chilembo 11.09.2023  

Self-made
New enemies of me
People I donโ€™t know
Lurk in dark corners
I donโ€™t know
Wish me dead

They donโ€™t know
Iโ€™m a free soul of the light
I donโ€™t know how to hide
I donโ€™t know how to die
Darkness cannot contain me

Invincible to eyes that see
I worry but little
Of fools groping in the dark
Hoping for a lucky strike
To annihilate me

Iโ€™m not
In a state of war
I fear no drones
No stealth missiles threats to
My soul of the light
Defence system

My shield is
My words
I push back with
My voice
I sing one moment
I preach the next
I wail this moment
The moment I growl
Earth trembles under my feet

Self-made
New enemies of me
Faceless people I donโ€™t know
Fools with reasons for
Enmity I donโ€™t know
Duped in fake storytelling tales
Of witches in fright
Of demons of them
Confronting them
In the glow of light
Permeating
The darkest recesses of the universe
In fright
Fight
Shadows of themselves in the dark
Tumbling in muddy faeces
Of their own
Gathered in trenches
Of massless conspiracy constructs
Meant to implode
A free soul of the light
They cannot see

I could never collapse
Into myself
Squash me
Sprout me
As particles of
My flesh and bones
In deep waters

Delusionals donโ€™t know
Thatโ€™s the closest theyโ€™ll ever
Come to harming me
Envious fools donโ€™t know me
Inconsequential foolsโ€™ll never see me
Repugnant fools embraced by
Darkness I donโ€™t know
Darkness I donโ€™t care about *

I cannot run away from the light
I have nothing to hide
I donโ€™t know how to hide
I have nowhere to hide
Not even a tomb can contain me
I had to break the law
Drank and drove
For prison walls to hold me
If only for a while

Youโ€™ll never find
Remains of me
In pyramids of Egypt
In a thousand years
When I say catch me if you can
I play with words
No longer do I play with
Bloodsuckers
Stabbed me in the back
I could have bled to death
Had it not been for
The light stronger than
Enemiesโ€™ self-consuming malice
In the dark

Resilience is the name of
Dark-hearts-impervious
Light games I play

Here I am to see
For all eyes with love
Iโ€™m a soul of invictus
I breathe love
As a matter of course
Iโ€™m here to stay
Longevity is the name of
My dance for life
Immortality is the name
Of my end-game
Beat that
If you can
๐—˜๐—ก๐——
ยฉSimon Chilembo 11.08.2023

On the 24th of October, 2019, I wrote the following article on my private blog, chilembowarriormoves.com:

๐—ข๐—ก๐—˜ ๐—ฌ๐—˜๐—”๐—ฅ ๐—Ÿ๐—”๐—ง๐—˜๐—ฅ: ๐—œ๐—Ÿ๐—Ÿ๐—จ๐—ฆ๐—œ๐—ข๐—ก๐—ฆ ๐—œ๐—ก ๐— ๐—ฌ ๐—ช๐—ข๐—ฅ๐—Ÿ๐——.
๐—ฅ๐—˜๐—”๐—Ÿ๐—œ๐—ง๐—ฌ ๐—œ๐—ฆ ๐—œ ๐—”๐—  ๐—›๐—˜๐—ฅ๐—˜, ๐—œ ๐—Ÿ๐—œ๐—ฉ๐—˜, ๐—œ ๐—Ÿ๐—ข๐—ฉ๐—˜, ๐—œ ๐——๐—”๐—ก๐—–๐—˜.
๐—œ ๐—”๐—œ๐—กโ€™๐—ง ๐—š๐—ข๐—œ๐—ก๐—š ๐—ก๐—ข๐—ช๐—›๐—˜๐—ฅ๐—˜.

๐”๐๐Œ๐€๐‘๐‘๐ˆ๐„๐ƒ ๐Œ๐„๐ ๐Œ๐”๐’๐“ ๐ƒ๐ˆ๐„?

๐ƒ๐„๐€๐“๐‡ ๐“๐Ž ๐’๐ˆ๐๐†๐‹๐„ ๐Œ๐„๐?

Sometime last year, 2022, whilst I was in the middle of working with my latest and nineth book, MACHONA GRIT โ€“ Onslaught On Hate, I came across an Instagram reel that caught my interest fleetingly. In this reel, the speaker made fiery, disparaging, and violence instigating remarks against single men. The speaker is a prominent American religious leader whose thoughts influence hundreds of millions of people across the world. However, not all will be direct adherents of his unique religious flock within the broader global faith movement of the umbrella religion, which could be Christianity, Judaism, Islam, or any other. They all serve the same purpose: harnessing of our primitive instincts, limiting the extent to which we can think we are free-thinking, independent individuals. Religion, a tool of oppression as destructive as can be.     

I choose not to name the religious leader because Iโ€™ve failed to find the said Instagram reel for a concrete reference source. Nevertheless, I have throughout all my adult life so far, come across innumerable sentiments like those uttered by the man of God vis-ร -vis men living alone without women as their marital partners.

Basically, the unmarried men hatersโ€™ contention is that solitary living unmarried men are not real men; because they are not real men, they are anti-God, and thus they deserve to die. The unmarried men haters say that God must kill single men, and it is the duty of all married men serving God to ensure that Godโ€™s will is fulfilled: death to the unmarried. Amen!

Itโ€™s strange that Catholic priests donโ€™t get married, though. Celibacy doesnโ€™t mean abstinence. Catholic priests do get caught doing the hanky panky too. When the priests sexually abuse small boys, I wonder about where God is when all this happens. Does he turn blind eyes? In that case, God is an accessory to a heinous crime. ย 

Personally, such emotional abuse and death threats Iโ€™ve outlined above are beneath me; they donโ€™t scathe me even a single bit. Iโ€™m sixty-three years old. Iโ€™m single, and Iโ€™ve never been married by choice. Over the years, Iโ€™ve on various fora already mentioned that Iโ€™m under no obligation to explain, to justify, or to defend my unmarried, solitary living to anybody. All men-of-God wanting to kill me for my choice to stay young, free, and single must just bring it on anytime. God himself is such an illusion so full of contradictions I have not time for.

For God so thrives in tyranny he made man in his, undefinable, multifaceted, illusory image. He accordingly polarized man; made man into a treacherous, murderous creature of fellow man for transgressions of frivolous, ill-defined, prejudicial so-called sins. A God of love who rules by threats and application of murder does not make sense to me.

To solve a dominance problem, brothers believing in the same God go to war against one another; as in, say, the current case of Russia against Ukraine. They simultaneously pray the same God for protection of themselves on the one hand, and power to annihilate the other on the other hand. For the time it shall take as to location of the war and the relative strengths of the warring parties, absolute mayhem, pillage, and murder could go on until the last man. Somebody might set off atomic bombs, and then weโ€™ll all be gone tomorrow. Adios, God!

Killers praising God for strength. The dying praying God for mercy. Priests praying God to receive the spirits of the dead in heaven; whilst the shredded body parts, if not ground flesh of the dead rest in eternal peace on earth fertilizing Ukrainian killing fields, if not the Congolese killing jungles. God nowhere to be seen. Not a sound from God.

No, the whole idea of the existence of an omnipresent God does not make any sense to me at all. God as an idea and a possible entity amongst us defies all logic. But, of course, his believers can have him. We are all already burning here on the hell that is planet earth, anyway. Heaven is in the minds of the free-spirited seekers and propagators of humane truths in pursuance of fairness and justice for mankind on earth.

In my countering the idea of death to men-without-women, I take the liberty to speak for the voiceless, the weak and vulnerable, the oppressed; the afraid. I do so simply because I can. I am no Messiah. I am a free spirit that scientifically knows that apart from the fundamental genetic coding that separates humans from other animals, each human being has an own unique subordinate genetic makeup that characteristically distinguishes them from other human beings. That distinction manifests itself in all aspects of being human, from state of health and its vulnerabilities to behavioural proclivities that may or may not reflect or condition our values in adulthood.

To the extent that human beings share a common physiological essence of being, it means that, although individually unique, our personal human attributes expressive traits are not finitely closed to the individual. Therefore, each our respective individual behavioural patterns, as reflected and influenced by our cognitive powers and processes, will cross, and interact with others. This is how relationships are formed, both voluntarily or through coercion. Human social organizations of all sizes and all sorts of interests, agendas, philosophies, and aspirations stem from here.

However, some peopleโ€™s human proclivities constructs will be so incongruent from others that they cannot easily fit into any structured social organization cage reflecting certain strictly defined control and manipulative values, such as religion, political movements or orientations, marriage, and many more. These are the eccentrics, the think-outside-the-box types, the innovators, the critics who, for the good or bad, question everything.

Through the epochs, there arise, amongst others, unconventional analysts, critical thinkers, philosophers, artists of all talents, social change makers, rebels, radicals, and freedom fighters whose thoughts and actions have lasting impacts on society. So, much as not everyone can be a rocket scientist; and not everyone can be an Usain Bolt, or be a religious fanatic, not every man can want to marry, or will be married by force or hook or crook. Marriage is not for every Jack and Jill.

Marriage does not define a man. Marriage is a concept a man gets into. With or without marriage, a man is a man. A brilliant man will be brilliant irrespective of whether they are married or not. In my private and professional lives, I have come across many idiotic married men. I can write volumes about idiotic married men. But for now, Iโ€™ll reduce all that to the total lack of respect these men subject their wives to.

Married men who beat up their wives disgust me. Married men who spend minimum time with their wives but unashamedly โ€˜fโ€™ around with other lovers and mistresses do not score high in my books. Many of these abused and neglected wives are some of the most melancholic women Iโ€™ve ever seen. In my travels around Europe many years ago, I met a grown-up lady who once said to me something like, โ€œSimon, itโ€™s taken me thirty years to realize that I got married to an a-hole of a man!โ€

Thirty-three years later, the couple now older and even more weary of each other, their marriage is still going strong. Thatโ€™s because, โ€œWe are Catholics. We donโ€™t divorce!โ€
Oh, help me God!
Which reminded me of what a dear brother of mine once said to me about women who hang on all their lives to marriages with a-hole men, โ€œAccording to our African cultures, divorce is unthinkable for many a woman. Divorce is โ€˜haramโ€™, you see!โ€
Jeeezzuzzz!!!   

Iโ€™m not anti-marriage. Reality is that Iโ€™m a great fan of marriage. Serious. If ever the poetโ€™s one fine day finds me at the right time and place, I could get married at the snap of a finger. Marriage is good. That to the extent that it mutually fulfils both the conceptual and functional expectations of the marriage partners.

By the conceptual I refer mainly to the subjective sentiment of love, the feelings it induces, and the expectations and obligations it imposes on those in love. Simply because we can never read peopleโ€™s minds, we can never know the feelings of other people, just as we can never know their expectations and self-defined obligations when in love. But fidelity and devotion are principles Iโ€™ve learned that they play an even more critical role in marriage. If these hold, marriage has chances of a long life.

Functional expectations in marriage are about the objective practicalities of day-to-day life that the married will and do encounter in their living together as a couple and, subsequently, as parents if children do come into the picture in time. Here are included aspects of family economic strength; an important consideration in the determination of how and where the family shall live. Other crucial questions to address will include division of duties in the home, management of extended families and other social relations, faith, culture and traditions, political affiliations, career development and ambitions, family wealth creation and sustenance, as well as many other practical considerations.     

In my world, a marriage that fails to deliver on the mutual conceptual and functional expectations for the married couple cannot hold. It need not hold at all cost, โ€˜haramโ€™ or no โ€˜haramโ€™. Marriage is not supposed to be an institution reminiscent of slavery. Neither is marriage supposed to be an institution of permanent dependency of women to physical-emotional abusive men.

Marriage is not an institution carved in stone. In any case, marriage is not an inherent feature of being human. Marriage is but one of many institutions man-created for purposes of social order maintenance, or social engineering. I fail to see how a non-functional, degrading marriage can contribute to social order. This brings forth the element of divorce, of which Iโ€™m as great a fan too. Whereas, indeed, marriage is good, divorce liberates. If ever I do get married at some point in the future, Iโ€™ll be the first to file for divorce as soon as I detect irreconcilable dysfunctionalities in my marriage.

People that are deeply in love, and wish to be together for life often look forward with glee to getting married. The same enthusiasm could be shown for impending, or desired divorce from a bad marriage. Women must not be afraid of divorce. Thereโ€™ll always be a better, stronger, and more caring man for a lover or new husband according to what civil status the divorced woman wishes to have. Itโ€™s ok to be single also. Again, in both my private and professional lives, Iโ€™m familiar with divorcee women that live happily ever after; divorce having given them a chance to pursue new paths towards fulfilling and sustainable self-reinvention efforts.                 

Some of the happiest men I know are married. Equally, thereโ€™s a hell lot of infectiously happy single, unmarried, never-been-married men I know. Of course, contents of the happiness baskets vary from the one man to the other man, regardless of civil status. Nevertheless, happiness is happiness. Happiness makes for a balanced, productive citizenry.

Conversely, the unhappiest, loser types of men I know, and have known are, or have been married. I have in my time come across extremely lonely married men. Weakened of spirit, and hoping to find happiness and comfort away from their wives, many of these sad married men are prone to extremes of costly promiscuous tendencies. Some end up falling prey to alcohol and substance abuse, with potentially dire consequences. Suicidal tendencies are not uncommon here. So much for marriage as an instrument of social cohesion. There absolutely are other ways to prove that a man is a man and worthy of societal recognition as such than apparently โ€˜fโ€™-ing around and holding women in the bondage of dehumanizing marriages.

I pity men that get into and remain in unhappy marriages for โ€˜reasons beyond my controlโ€™: family and/ peer pressure, โ€˜that is what people doโ€™, children, potential impoverishment through loss of accumulated wealth to the ex-wife in the event of a divorce, and other reasons.

It ought to be a given that nation states will strive as much as it is humanely possible to create all necessary conditions for a happy state of existence for the people. The various social interests organizations prevailing in society are there to ensure that the state lives up to its obligations for the people. This is what social justice work is about.

Itโ€™s not up to social interests organizations leaders to arbitrarily judge and condemn to death certain categories of their fellow citizens for being non-confirmatory to fluid social conventions such as marriage. Single, unmarried, and/ or never-been-married men deserve to live life to its fullest potential just like everyone else. Jesus was killed for other reasons than for that he was unmarried.

And talking about God, biographyonline.net says, โ€œSwami Vivekananda, [a] spiritual teacher and important figure in Indian renaissance of the late nineteenth century. A great believer in the virtues of celibacy [says] โ€œIf one wastes the most potent forces of oneโ€™s being, one cannot become spiritual. All history teaches us that the great seers of all ages were either monks and ascetics or those who had given up married life; only the pure in life can see God.โ€

Furthermore, biographyonline.net says that โ€œNikola Tesla was a unique inventor who threw himself into discovering new advances in electronics and science. He had no interest in marriage and saw sex as a distraction from his lifeโ€™s purpose. A famous actress of the time, Sarah Bernhardt, tried to attract him, but, he merely saw her as a distraction. When asked about marriage, he replied: โ€œI do not think you can name many great inventions that have been made by married men.โ€

WHEN THE MIGHTY FALL ON MARRIAGE

From my debut novel, WHEN THE MIGHTY FALL โ€“ rise again mindgames   Iโ€™ll read a passage on marriage. That is from p. 63 to p. 66:

โ€œPeople get married for a myriad of reasons. There are some who seem to have gotten married not knowing why and how it began at all, though. They just found themselves in it. Trying to make sense of it all with time, they simplistically and conveniently conclude that, well, everyone else does it, why not them?

โ€œCulture and social norms dictate it, they shall reason. Inevitably they make a mess of it, making life extremely miserable for themselves, their marriage partners, as well as everyone else who has anything to do with them in about all aspects of life. Many a person in this category marries themselves into murder and suicide, the ultimate tragedy of marriage.

โ€œMarriage is another unnatural institution the functionality of which is a non-ending attempt at structuring, engineering, and regulating instinctive, natural human behaviour in certain predictable directions. If it is instinctive, it happens freely according to its own predetermined, internal logic, irrespective of whether external factors are conducive, congruent or not.

โ€œFrom society to society, culture to culture, marriage rules determine how many marriage partners one can have in either direction, how often, when. The rules will also specify rituals to be followed in order to sanctify the coming together of people in marriage.

โ€œSanctification of marriage is enforced through the morals and ethics around it, particularly with respect to aspects of fidelity, respect, trust, duty, and obligation. Meaning that, in a perfect world, once bound in and by marriage, people ought to be together for life; thereby ensuring order, stability, and harmony in society.

โ€œMarriage defines boundaries and territorial integrities of the married, and their subsequent family units. These have to be acknowledged and respected in order to provide for peaceful co-existence, as well as orderly and systematic growth, progress, and development in society.

โ€œPerhaps an often-overlooked function of marriage contra instinctive, natural human behavioural tendencies is the population growth control aspect of it.

โ€œWithout the perceived and learned value of marriage as a behavioural moderation institution in societal functioning, society would be thrown into total chaos as humans respond unrestrained to instinctive, natural urges of sex, and sexual reproduction.

โ€œJealousy, power, domination, and control inspired violence in the competition for partners towards letting out, and responding to the said instinctive natural urges would be the order rather than the exception for collective human existence.

โ€œWithout the rigidities of formalized marriage rules with respect to family expansion by way of conception, birth, and raising of children, human population pressure on planet earth and its limited resources would most probably be of magnitudes much higher relative to what the situation is today. A recipe for the eventual extinction of the human race on earth due to, among other things, territorial wars making what the world currently experiences of regional wars look like a childrenโ€™s Sunday picnic in the park.

โ€œMarriage is, therefore, some very serious business. It is not for the non-thinking, and faint-hearted.

โ€œFor marriage to work for the married, or yet to be married, and therefore be beneficial to society, people have to fully understand its implications and ramifications. Irrespective of the reasons, or circumstances leading to marriage, it is of vital importance to understand and acknowledge that marriage is ultimately a personal journey.

โ€œIts life-changing implications are huge, they can never be overestimated. Life is never, it will never be the same once married. Chances of marriage being a lasting success are higher in cases where the process and the institution are congruent not only with the feelings of the concerned, but also their beliefs, faiths, values, hopes, dreams, and aspirations, among others.

โ€œPitfalls of marriage are many, deep, and wide in cases where people unwillingly, or uncritically, fall into the trap by marrying to fulfill expected conventional behaviour. The latter may be in relation to culture, religion, life circumstances, and peer pressure.

โ€œMarriage stands chances of going the distance to the extent that it is both a mutually voluntary, as well as a well-thought-out space of the most intimate of human interactions to choose to venture into.

โ€œThere are those who shall base their marriages on love. They deeply love one another above anything or anyone else on earth. Marriage will, therefore, be a natural consummation of that love. But love alone is never adequate to sustain a marriage.

โ€œLove facilitates, and spices up marriage; it does not make a marriage. Love is the key to a potential marriage partnerโ€™s heart. Love is a ringing bell into another personโ€™s, a potential marriage partnerโ€™s, life. To be sustained and sustainable, love itself needs tender loving care. But it cannot on its own guarantee a happily-ever-after life of marriage.

โ€œTo the extent that in many a perfunctorily functional marriage, love may not be the driving force, love and marriage can be mutually exclusive in the same space. Trouble in paradise.

โ€œThere is, there will always be much love to get outside marriage. As a natural instinct, people will always know when they are in love or not. Love instinctively gravitates towards love. If there is love in marriage, chances are that the marriage can be kept together.

โ€œLove is a natural force of emotion that knows no colour, race, religion, or creed. Because it is a vital part of, but larger than marriage, any marriage the importance of which is attached more to man-made concepts of culture, religion, and other social conventions than love is doomed to failure.

โ€œThe natural urge to want to feed love with, and on love, is ever so strong that people in miserable marriages will as a matter of course and natural predictability go out to look for love elsewhere. That done with either open defiance, or total discretion to the extent it will last. In many cases, this will turn out to be a direct order for the ultimate tragedy of marriage.

โ€œReality is that when a supposedly unfaithful marriage, or romantic, partner is dead, they are dead, and they are so with all the things the murderer demanded; they will never come back. Much as when the supposedly betrayed marriage, or romantic, partner has committed suicide, there is no knowing that they will find what they demanded of their partners on the other side.โ€

Thatโ€™ll be it for today. If you want to get married, do so and be happy; only if the matrimony meets your conceptual and functional expectations; not forgetting obligations to yourself as a person and as a matrimonial partner. If the marriage doesnโ€™t work, get out of it. Fast. The paradox is that youโ€™ll never know if your marriage will work or not until youโ€™ve gotten into it first. If it works, it works. Well and good. If it doesnโ€™t work, it doesnโ€™t work. Leave.

Divorce might cost you a lot of things in the beginning. It is what it is. Freedom doesnโ€™t come cheap. Hang in there. Have hope. Keep the faith. The future is bright. Time heals. Make it your goal to live long enough to see the good that the future has in store for you.    

SIMON CHILEMBO
OSLO
NORWAY
July 03, 2023

๐–๐‡๐€๐“ ๐ˆ๐’ ๐€๐‘๐“?

๐€๐Œ๐ˆ๐ƒ๐’๐“ ๐๐„๐€๐”๐“๐ˆ๐…๐”๐‹ ๐“๐‡๐ˆ๐๐†๐’

DISCLAIMER

I do not have any academic nor professional training in art. My articulation of what art is a function of my laymanโ€™s instinctual appreciation of things beautiful against the ugly; both in the figurative and abstract manifestations as my senses perceive it in any given situation and space, at any given time. All I know is how to think and write, and write and think. Art is what I feel. If I feel it, I can think it. If I think it, I can write it. Writing is my art, my artistic expression. Writing is what I do; all attributable to my academic training.   

WORKPLACE OF BEAUTIFUL THINGS

People do from time to time visit museums of all kinds for all kinds of recreational, educational, and research reasons. I work at Norwayโ€™s Nasjonalmuseet. The institution has proved to be an awesome literary creativeโ€™s wet dream for me as an author and poet. I get at least one goosebumps moment each day I am at work. Tens of thousands of works of art are on display throughout the eighty-nine exhibition spaces at the museum. In all their widely variable expressive forms, these artworks move me in a way that ever fills me with love and joy like I have never experienced before. Working here is a privilege I am much grateful for.

At different points in about all the exhibition spaces in the museum, there are rest stations comprising benches upon extensions of which are placed, amongst other items, wooden playing cards. The cards have various quizzes and games for the guests to have a go at as they sit and rest. I, together with Ole, a fine but ever condescending colleague young enough to be my grandson, happened to have been engaged in a discussion about various aspects of the museum when we approached one such station. Ole then unexpectedly reached out and randomly pulled out a card from the bench extension. It turned out to be a quiz card with the question: โ€˜What is Art?โ€™; creating a gotcha moment that I saw Ole revelling in.

Talking about Oleโ€™s gotcha moment, this was yet another one of those moments in which a person of European extraction comes to me with the pre-conditioned notion that Black people are not cultivated enough to appreciate the finer aspects of European culture. Anyhow, my immediate response, in this case, was, โ€œArt is the capturing of an experiential moment in time and space in order to, perhaps, tell a story about that experience in the future. This capture can be in any form or medium according to the proclivities and talents of the artist.โ€
Ole, โ€œI hear you. But you will have to elaborate more on all that you have just said!โ€ ย 
Seeing as we had to attend to each of our respective duties at work then, I replied, โ€œI shall write an essay for you, then. Deal?โ€
โ€œDeal!โ€

My definition of art shall be both conceptual and functional. Conceptually, I know art when I perceive it. I do not have to be told. I do not have to be instructed. I know art when my senses register it. Regardless of the representational form, the sentimental response that I get from experiencing any manifestation of art that I consider as beautiful is a constant. Conversely, an unattractive, unpleasant artistic form as I experience it emotionally affects me in the same way relevant to it irrespective of the form or the representational style.

Whenever I read a storybook (or even write one) that I enjoy, my breathing rate slows down, and the total bodily relaxation I get gives me a wonderful warm feeling all over; I get goosebumps, and my palms get warmer and moist. This kind of feeling brings me immense joy. The dreamy state it gets me into sends me into a fantasy world of all things possible. If I had been, for one reason or another, going through hard times, this state brings hope home; it fills me with a sweet sense of freedom. In this state, I am invincible. This is my subjective domain for defining what beautiful art is for me as my perceptive senses โ€“ eyes, ears, skin, tongue, nose, intuition โ€“ register it, feed my hormonal system (feel-good hormones), and the latter instructing my nervous system to induce my being to act accordingly. Pure joy.

Whilst recognizing it for what it is, art that is repugnant to me is exactly that. If it makes me cringe, if it casts a shadow of pessimism over me, if it fills me with negative thoughts and associations, if it gives me a cold sweat, then it is bad art for me. There are times when I can see beauty in bad, ugly art, though. I think about the hands, or some other body parts, that created the work. Every hand shall tell its story according to its ownerโ€™s neuro-hormonal wiring and physical capabilities. One manโ€™s apparent gory art may be anotherโ€™s depiction of heaven. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Functionally, art is a conveyor of messages, a storyteller; a courier of generational narratives in humanityโ€™s dances with nature and itself over time. Art can be an instrument of change. Art can repair the once broken. Art can inspire hope, faith, trust, and love. To the extent that art is a personal expression, art may speak for its creator. Art creators have the potential to make or break society. Ask God, manโ€™s most divisive, master-of-carnage creation. God may have created man instead, her most complex work of art. The outcome is not any better.

Art is identity. Identity may be deception obscured in art. From the outset, art may be true by intent and purpose. But when human perception and interpretation of reality are as polychotomous as there are so many people on earth, art shall be true or fallacious as to the perceptive state and cognitive capacity of the observer. Therein lies the mystique, the intrigue of art. Who am I? I am a man in love with art.

Art is some powerful stuff. Art is a human creative potential deserving to be handled with tender, loving care. At its best, art is an instrument of peace; art has the potential to stimulate reflection on the human condition. We rise, we fall; art captures all that. Art is beauty. Without beauty, life is not worth living.

Beauty moves humanity forward and higher on the scale of qualitative and quantitative improvements in life. It is not for nothing that nations of the world, interest organizations of all sorts and sizes, wealthy individuals, and many others invest heavily in the promotion, conservation, preservation, and storage of some of our most impactful artworks over the epochs into the future. Art immortalizes human experience.

Introducing our beloved Rock & Roll Norwegian Royal Family. Long live The King!

SIMON CHILEMBO  
OSLO
NORWAY
TEL.: +92525032
April 07, 2023

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Order, read, and be inspired by my latest and 9th book, 2nd poetry volume, MACHONA GRIT: Onslaught on Hate

๐—ข๐—ก ๐—”๐—•๐—ข๐—ฅ๐—ง๐—œ๐—ข๐—ก: ๐—ฃ๐—”๐—ฅ๐—ง ๐—œ๐—œ

ษชษด๊œฐแดส€แดแด‡แด… ๊œฑแด›แด€ษดแด… แดษด แดกแดแดแด‡ษดโ€™๊œฑ ๊œฑแด‡xแดœแด€สŸ ส€แด‡แด˜ส€แดแด…แดœแด„แด›ษชแด แด‡ สœแด‡แด€สŸแด›สœ ส€ษชษขสœแด›๊œฑ

I came to the world via South Africa, where I spent the first fourteen-and-half years of my life, June 1960-January 1975. As I get older and older for each new year that comes and goes, the impact that growing up in that country has had on my fundamental views of life becomes ever more glaring. That as I strive to make sense of the multitudinous manifestations of horrendous sociological choices outcomes in the world today. In that sense, I was born at the right place, in my time.

The horrendous sociological choices outcomes I mention above arising from apparent mental derangement states in which some of our national and global political leaders thrive as they pathetically engineer society to perpetual dysfunctionality. They think out, formulate, and work to impose outrageous rules and laws that are obviously detrimental to the well-being of society. In fact, these lunatics present an existential threat to human and other life on earth. This as evidenced by national social upheavals owing to ever degenerative leadership quality across the world.

Social collapse attendant to dominant degenerate ethico-political leadership characteristically culminate in civil and international wars, ill-management of potential and actual natural catastrophes, including pandemics. The current Covid-19 pandemic is supposed to have given the world a wake-up call. Of course, this is an outlandish idea to many a national-global leader, and, not in the least, a segment of the new socio-cultural influencer class at the same scale. The latter extensively prevalent in the vast and ever so rapidly growing internet social media platforms sphere.   

In the world today, Rocket Science knowledge is not a pre-requisite for the ability to pinpoint where on the globe the scum of society are all out to deprive people of the right to live free and happy in the abundance of survival resources existence provides for all. Itโ€™s all on Google. Itโ€™s all in the news. If you read and/ listen to conspiracy theories news publications, you are no different from the scum of the earth. Wretched souls beyond redemption. Shame.  

Growing up in South Africa, I was from an early age mentally conditioned that I might at some point have to sacrifice my schooling opportunities for the benefit of my younger sister, Sisi. Prime assumption being that misfortune could somehow befall my parents. In that event, they would eventually fail to finance my siblingsโ€™ and Iโ€™s education, caught up in the doldrums of endemic Black South Africansโ€™ poverty-stricken existence.   

Seen from a global human perspective, parenting and all that it entails is what it is by default. It is not my intention to want to trivialize the challenges of parenting elsewhere. But parenting in the then inherently doomed, dysfunctional, systemically racist Apartheid South Africa was an arduous, unpredictable endeavour for Black people: unemployment, disease, violence, rampant sudden death. Other than the new faces on driversโ€™ seats of post-Apartheid South African socio-economic transformation state machinery, not much has changed for the masses of the underprivileged in the country, though. 

It was never difficult for me to understand that in the event that some tragedy would befall my parents, especially my father, Iโ€™d have to stop schooling, go find work, and earn some money to continue where theyโ€™d have left to financially support the family. The idea that Iโ€™d defy the misfortune fate of my people had already been long engrained in my head. Therefore, it wasnโ€™t accidental that my mother encouraged me to earn my own pocket money by selling oranges on the streets during school holidays. I was ten years old the first time. Three years later, 1973, I landed my first ever formal employment job as a junior waiter at a then Whites Only Italian Restaurant in my hometown, Welkom.

Iโ€™m still alive. With variable rates of success over the years, I have lived to fulfill my obligations as a supportive elder brother to my two surviving siblings from my mother. Owing to circumstances beyond my control, I havenโ€™t been able to be there for my half-siblings from my fatherโ€™s other procreative endeavours exterior to my mother, prior to or after their marriage.

Any fool ought to know by now that education is a historically powerful facilitatory tool to appreciable degrees of progressive participation in, and gain from socio-economic activities of our modern, digital age global society. Indeed, some guys with all the luck and some other special attributes will become economically and politically high and mighty without having gone far by way of academic education attainment. These may or may not be partners in crime vis-ร -vis upliftment or destruction of society.

The unabashed manifestation and relentless growth of misogyny in the later years of my life boggle my mind. Thatโ€™s because I grew up aware that upon having weighed the options in time, it was a trend in my neighbourhood that priority was given to pushing girls to acquire as much education as possible. The girls could be nurses and teachers when grown up. Costs of more specialized education in medicine, engineering, and other such related fields of academic or professional training were prohibitive. This fact, combined with generally demotivating Apartheid state policies towards Black education, created a major barrier for my peopleโ€™s pursuit of higher education ambitions.

It made sense to empower girls because, ideally, they grew up to be mothers of the nation, starting with their respective family units. An educated girl subsequently getting married to a well-bred young man was worth gold to her family. In my then communityโ€™s perfect world within the context of the imperfect Apartheid world then, boys having sacrificed their own education for their sisters could always come back and continue schooling once their sisters had at least completed pre-university studies. If the plan didnโ€™t succeed, the boys would simply continue working, get married, have children, and see the latter go through the same cycle of sacrifices with little prospects of sustainability in practice.

From my generation in my childhood neighbourhood in Thabong, Welkom, I donโ€™t know of even a single girl that ever obtained at least full high school education level. Although possibly true in some instances, this is not necessarily mainly a result of family economic constraints nor personal cognitive inadequacies.

My only concern, if not fear, about the idea of me delaying my academic advancement for my younger sisterโ€™ sake was the potential of her getting pregnant whilst still at school. In that case, thatโ€™d be the end of dreams, for both of us, of a better life derived from well-paying jobs education aspiringly led to. Experience showed that once the boys entered the labour market, not many ever got the opportunity to continue with their educational ambitions later on as life progressed.

If anything, the boys would also soon make other girls pregnant and then get caught in the trap of lasting poverty as they get overwhelmed by economic hardships of their own. Paradoxically, once a young girl got pregnant, that was it: she was finished. No more school. Never. As a general observation, which to a large extent remains true to this day, early-age pregnancy totally destroyed girlsโ€™ lives. The situation would be worse if the impregnator refused to take responsibility for looking after or supporting the immature mother-to-be.

My mother-tongue, Sesotho, is the most disparaging, derisive language I know. In Sesotho, a young girl getting pregnant is described as โ€˜o senyehileโ€™. It means that โ€˜she is destroyedโ€™. And sheโ€™ll be treated as such by both her family and the community. Sheโ€™s brought shame not only to the family but everyone around her. At worst, sheโ€™d be treated with much disrespect. Boys and men now seeing her as cheap, and, therefore, reduce her to a readily available sexual object moving forward. Consent not a concept adhered to by the male sex predators in this case. Many a girlโ€™s life has been destroyed this way, culminating in suicides in the extreme.

โ€˜O ntshitse mpaโ€™ translates as โ€˜She has taken out the stomachโ€™. Abortion is described as โ€˜Ho ntsha mpaโ€™ in Sesotho, therefore. Graphically, โ€˜Ho ntsha mpaโ€™ as a process means โ€˜to remove the stomachโ€™. Consequently, Iโ€™ve since my childhood days associated abortion with excruciating physical pain for the girls concerned. As I grew older in my mid-late teens, I began to be cognizant of, and think independently on ethical and moral issues. It was at this point that I concluded lastingly that regardless of the circumstances prevailing around a pregnancy, it must be an extremely tortuous decision for a woman to choose to terminate it.

As a firmly held philosophical stand-point, I concluded that it took much resolve and courage for a woman to choose to endure the physical and emotional pain that abortion necessarily entails. This is one area in which I feel and think that women manifest magnanimity deserving the highest and unreserved admiration. To force a woman to carry to the full a pregnancy thatโ€™s uncontestably detrimental to her physical and mental health, if not life-threatening, ought to be the crime.

Abortion as a medically defensible procedure to safeguard and enhance the well-being of women in the living ought to be a right understood from a womanโ€™s perspective. Stupid old men who have no practical idea at all about what it takes and feels to be pregnant and subsequently give birth must stay out of promulgating laws that interfere with womenโ€™s sexual reproductive health rights. Anti-abortion women dancing to the tunes of stupid conservative old and young men are traitors against their own kind. These women need help. When one woman appallingly postulates that another woman can opt for abortion at the point of actual birthing, it suggests some serious mental imbalance issues. Another one is about women aborting children already born. Jeeezzuzzz!!! ย 

SIMON CHILEMBO
OSLO
NORWAY
TEL.: +4792525032
July 25, 2022        

BOOKS

To Ban or Not to Burn

At eight-to-nine-years of age, 1968-69, I was too young to see the implications of not attending school for two years. My Grade 1 year at St. Rose Primary School, Peka, Lesotho, was a long one. It lasted from age four-and-half, 1965, to six-and-half years old, 1967. I, at instant notice and under dramatic circumstances, had to leave Lesotho in the earlier part of 1969. There was no time to acquire school reports and formalized school transfer documents to enable me to continue with schooling in South Africa. Not that I knew anything about such documents at that time, though. In any case, my expectation had been that Iโ€™d return to my school in Lesotho once the situation had become normal and safe again.

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2022
Author/ Storyteller/ Poet/ Publisher/ Warrior/ Machona Son

Towards the end of 1969, I had already begun to discern the bigger social dynamics around me. That applied to both in my home and with regard to the extended family relations, as well as the wider society to the extent that a nine-year-old child can make sense of their world. It hit me like a bomb, therefore, when my parents unexpectedly made it clear to me that schooling in Lesotho was over for my younger brother, Thabo, and I. Weโ€™d resume studies in my motherโ€™s hometown, Thaba Nchu, 210km to the south of my hometown, Welkom. We had been to the former to celebrate Christmas 1969 with my uncle Mosesโ€™ new and young family.

The anger and frustration I felt towards my parents at that time hurt me so much that it felt like I had river stones in my stomach. This feeling of profound disappointment and helplessness would last the entire two years that Thabo and I stayed in Thaba Nchu. That Iโ€™d have a bad relationship with my uncle Mosesโ€™ wife didnโ€™t help matters much. I became a bundle of mental and physical tension. Otherwise a generally happy-go-lucky child up to that point, I became unruly in my uncleโ€™s home.

Understanding Thabo and Iโ€™s plight regarding education access given our background, Mr Justice Mmekwa facilitated Thabo and Iโ€™s resumption of schooling in Thaba Nchu. Eldest son of my uncleโ€™s landlady, โ€˜Masang, he was a respected primary school Principal in a neighbouring town called Tweespruit.  Without this kind manโ€™s help, it would have been extremely difficult to find any school places for us in then Apartheid South Africa. As an independent, non-racial state, Lesotho represented values contrary to those of then anti-Black progress racist Apartheid South Africa.

I remain eternally grateful to Principal Justice Mmekwa for his assistance, support, and inspiration. He was a man of class; ever well-groomed. A fine family man exuding charisma that few of my adult male role models of the time had. Other than the traditional Barolong Chief, and Mr Ngophe the trader in the neighbourhood, the Principal was the only man with a car. The latterโ€™s black Mercedes Benz power machine made my fatherโ€™s then blue Opel Rekord car look like a toy beside the former. No doubt, the man is one of those lasting I wanna be like that when I grow up references in my life. I had already begun to be aware of my predisposition towards being there for the weak and vulnerable in times of need. Principal Mmekwaโ€™s gesture enhanced that attribute in me.

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2022
Author/ Storyteller/ Poet/ Publisher/ Warrior/ Machona Son

A fixed image of Principal Mmekwa in my head is that of him majestically stepping out of his car each time he arrived home from work; a rolled newspaper clutched under his left armpit, with a book in the hand. On the right hand he would be carrying the most beautiful leather briefcase Iโ€™ve ever seen. In tweed outfits (never a suit), a Stetson on his head, and a smoking pipe jutting from his mouth, he was a sight to behold. His โ€œDumelang, bana! Hello, children!โ€ baritone voice resonates in my head to this day. His eyes were the suns.

In January, 1970, Thabo and I were well-received by the Principal of the then newly-opened Namanyane Primary School in Selosesha Township. The Principal, whose name Iโ€™ve forgotten, was another affable man. It was advantageous that it turned out that he was homeboy with my mother and uncle Moses from their village, Paradys, about 30km from Thaba Nchu town.

Thabo and Iโ€™s respective class teachers and others were really nice to us. That made the two years at the school very enjoyable for me indeed. Whilst at school, I could forget about the unpleasant atmosphere at home with my aunt. I had already experienced the joy of choral music singing in Lesotho. However, I got the first ever taste of inter-school choral singing competitions at the new school. In my head, it is as if there was singing every day of school during the years 1970-71. The sounds of rehearsals voices of different categories of singing according to age and song vocalization skills still buzz in my head in my moments of meditative inner silence.

I got the first taste of formal competition victory when my choir, the Junior Choir, won the regional schools choral music competition in 1970. The category song was called Mmino wa Pino/ Singing of a Song. It spoke about the universal appeal of music; how it, music, defied all the prevalent artificial discriminatory practices in society. My eyes began to open to Apartheid in a critical way at about this time. My life would never be the same again.

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2022
Author/ Storyteller/ Poet/ Publisher/ Warrior/ Machona Son

It is also at this time that I began to consciously think about the big questions of life around hate, love, peace, and all other tendencies reflecting inequities around me. Inspired by the Apollo 11 moon landing in the previous year, I recall one day wondering if it were possible to relocate to another place far, far away from all the evils of mankind on earth.

At the same time, I discovered that whereas I was in Grade 3 that year, 1970, several of my agemates were two to four classes ahead of me. In no time I had figured it out that the situation was due to the fact that I had lost the two school years of 1968-69. The difference would probably had not been that much had I progressed normally from Grade 1 in 1965, I reckoned.

If I ever had a sore moment at Namanyane Primary School in Thaba Nchu, it was the illumination of how much schooling time I had previously foregone due to circumstances beyond my control. The school Principal, my class teacher and some of their colleagues also found it hard to understand how I could have academically stayed that far behind my contemporaries. This enhanced my new sense of bewilderment here. I was actually a brilliant pupil. And, ideas of what I wanted to be when grown up were already crystallizing in my head. I began to wonder some more about whether there didnโ€™t exist another place far, far away where I could get educated quickly to be a doctor without having to bother about the other kids that I felt had had an unfair lead over me. Visions of living in other worlds preoccupied my mind from then on.

Thinking about the moon was not exciting because I had already learned that normal human life was impossible out there. But the moon remained a major point of reference until in my class we began to read stories and answer questions from books. We began to read and write down our answers to the questions set in the books. This was a major leap from verbally answering questions from texts our teacher would have read to us.

I donโ€™t recall any of the stories the teacher ever read to us. But I know that listening to them induced in me a feeling of flying away like a bird during the reading sรฉances. This gave me a special inner peace that detached me from my frustrations with my derailed academic progress. In this state of mind, negative forces around me ceased to matter. The challenge, though, was that the reading sessions were ever so short. Nevertheless, that made me to ever want to look forward to going to school the following day. Truly happy memories.

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2022
Author/ Storyteller/ Poet/ Publisher/ Warrior/ Machona Son

We may have read more stories when the time came for us to read our recommended class text book on our own. Thatโ€™s because the first two stories I remember, and got to make a lasting impression on me, were somewhere in the middle of the book. Both in appropriate condensed forms, the first story was about a man whose tragic life led him to unknowingly kill his father, and end up marrying and having four children with his own mother. The second story was about two men in an intense competition to reach the South Pole one before the other.   

My class teacher made it clear that the first story was not for real. It was created a long, long, long time ago by a writer and thinker from an overseas land called Greece. Although it was a story too difficult to discuss thoroughly then, she told us that its idea was that sometimes we cannot escape what destiny had in store for us. It was therefore important to aspire to be as descent a human being as possible, despite the troubles of our world. She went on to say that we were going to read even more books as we grew older and progressed with our education.

โ€œBooks are a safe store of knowledge about who we are; just like banks keep our money safe,โ€ she concluded.

As regards the second story, it was from reality, the teacher enlightened us. The story highlighted the importance of determination towards the achievement of our goals as we grew older. She said that books that tell real life stories teach us about what it takes to attain certain goals. The books help us to learn not to make the same mistakes that the writers shall highlight in their stories.

โ€œReal life story books teach us how to be human in ways we should easily relate to, even if we could never replicate events of the stories as they are narrated in the books,โ€ the teacher said. She went on to say that it was the aim of acting in the bioscope and theatre stages to seek to bring book stories close to life as much as possible. Some of us would be actors when grown up, maybe?

Two years later, Iโ€™d see for the first time a professional theatrical performance: Sikhalo, by the legendary South African playwright, Gibson Kente. This play brought home to me a clearer picture of the Black condition under Apartheid South Africa. I got a better understanding of the monster. The monster had to die, even if many of my people had to die in the process. We could cry and laugh away our troubles through the arts. Education was a crucial weapon in our struggle for freedom. If education was found in books, then Iโ€™d  read and read them all.   

It was one thing to hear the teacherโ€™s philosophical discourse on the stories and the value of books. From reading and understanding the essence of the stories, what happened with me was that my mind for the first time in my life saw the existence of other worlds on earth. I could, perhaps, escape to these new places for my peace of mind. The more I read, the more the world, life, made sense to me, for better and for worse. The more I wanted to explore human nature in order that I might better understand myself and my purpose in life.

The interesting coincidence is that I have now been living in Norway, the land of Roald Amundsen, one of the two South Pole explorers mentioned above, for nearly thirty-four years. Greece was my first encounter with Europe in 1985. Talk about fate!

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2022
Author/ Storyteller/ Poet/ Publisher/ Warrior/ Machona Son

I came to Norway via Zambia, my fatherland. Landing in Zambia in March, 1975, would turn out to be a thirteen yearsโ€™ enduring be careful what you ask for moment. Zambia took me down, took me up, tossed me mid-air in stormy weathers, took me up and up to finally thrust me even farther away to new lands in my pursuit of a suitable place for my peace of mind. Thanks to Zambia, upon my landing in Oslo in August, 1988, I was a mean physical fighting machine, a polished rising international intellectual powerhouse with, of course, a taste for the finer things in life. Zambia gave me tough lessons in how to be a man of the world. Such that, no, landing and eventually living in Norway has never been a culture shock trip for me.

The two years prior to my parents relocating the family to Zambia, 1972-74, presented me with a trove of pubertal-early-teens growing up thrills: consolidation of my sense of identity, winning respect from my peers, earning own cash, rock-and-roll with girls, street survival mentoring from older friends of both sexes, travelling, sport, and much more. At school I was a star by default. The vision of my being a doctor when grown up was becoming more and more real. That as talk about beginning to look for potential bursary/ scholarship sources for me had begun. I got inspired to want to read more and more intensely so as to maintain my top-of-the-class status at school.

Reading then involved a great deal of cramming, especially during examination seasons in June and November/ December every year. For homework assignments, I could in one sitting lasting perhaps an hour, read and memorize all the recommended texts for the day in all the subjects: English, Afrikaans, Maths, History/ Social Studies, General Science, and Bible Studies. That was the most natural thing for me to do at the time. However, it used to baffle me when some of my classmates used to complain about how difficult it was for them to either find time or concentration to read at home. I didnโ€™t know how I could help them; neither was I keen to, really, because competition for academic excellence was very stiff. Only the very best of the best got access to the extremely scarce bursaries/ scholarships provided by various private business entities and rich individuals.

Extra-curricular reading during this time mainly comprised newspapers, various weekly and monthly entertainment magazines and comics. Bible stories of Moses, Samson, Kings David and Solomon captured my imagination in a huge way. So, I read the Bible a lot. Some of the best literature-induced mental travels Iโ€™ve ever had have been during this time. Reflections over the adventures of the mentioned figures have lastingly influenced my view of life.

Moses opened my eyes to the sense of devotion. Samsonโ€™s warrior heart ceases never to give me goose bumps; his wife, Delilahโ€™s betrayal of him may just be one of the reasons Iโ€™ve yet to get hitched. I donโ€™t know. King David and his sonโ€™s lust issues gave me a special perspective about power and sex. And, then, King Solomonโ€™s proverbs in praise of his women paved the way for the lessons of love that Iโ€™d later read about in greater depth in The Perfumed Garden. I learned from the latter book that if I wanted to maximally enjoy physical intimacy with a woman, I must handle her with utmost tenderness, just like when I consume my favourite juicy fruit. This book broadened the mystery of misogyny and violence against women. Beats me.

After over three months on the rails and road, we arrived in Lusaka a tired family unit. The journey had been hard on us on many fronts. Our joy at having finally arrived home turned into acute disillusionment within a matter of days. Longstanding conflicts in my fatherโ€™s family made it difficult for us to bond. Subsequently, at different times and under different circumstances, my parents, my two surviving younger siblings and I would leave Zambia. The youngest sibling, Dintletse, died and was buried in Lusaka in 1983. I came to Norway, whilst the others returned to South Africa.

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2022
Author/ Storyteller/ Poet/ Publisher/ Warrior/ Machona Son

Starting with my uncle, Mr OB Chilemboโ€™s private library at home, arrival in Zambia was an introduction to a world of books like I had never seen before. In the home library, I could mentally fly away from bitterness bordering on hate in my family situation then: Iโ€™d find myself following murder investigations in the USA, falling in love with English women in London, fighting in World Wars 1 and 2, investigating human nature as a psychologist, defending criminals in courts all over the world, singing and dancing Jazz on Broadway, playing World Cup football, getting lost in the Sahara, robbing banks in Paris and Rome, escaping from Russian labour camps in Siberia, pretending to be dead in Mao Tse Tungโ€™s Chinaโ€™s rice paddies, hiking across Australia, and much more.

The comfort I derived from reading books was like no other. I donโ€™t quite exactly remember what specific books and other publications I read especially throughout the rest of 1975, when I didnโ€™t attend school. But I know for sure that much of the reading helped me make sense of my reality. That way I could, indeed, find some peace in my inner world.

I found the reading culture in Zambia amazing both in magnitude and diversity. Even Radio Zambia had an African Literature reading hour most working day afternoons, if I recall. Zambians had no culture of displaying their book collections on shelves in living rooms. Iโ€™ve met numerous foreigners who had concluded that Zambians were not well-read for not having showy bookshelves in their houses. Quite the contrary.

Well-off Zambians like my uncle had private libraries, as Iโ€™ve already alluded to above. Otherwise, people valued their book collections so much that they kept them in their bedrooms, or such other private spaces. Others concealed the books in locked, opaque cupboards in their living spaces. Upon entering my uncleโ€™ spacious living and dining area, including a bar, there was almost never a book to see.

Uncle OB has on more than one occasion spoken in awe about how vast a collection of exclusive books two of his contemporaries had in their private libraries. Only selected individuals could enter here. If you didnโ€™t ask, or you didnโ€™t get caught up in a heated debate necessitating available literary referencing, youโ€™d not likely see your Zambian hostโ€™s book collection. Erudite or not, Zambians can be formidable debaters, if not orators, thriving on the pedantic.     

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2022
Author/ Storyteller/ Poet/ Publisher/ Warrior/ Machona Son

With time, some of my paternal cousins of my age took me to the Lusaka City Library. I donโ€™t recall ever reading or borrowing a book from there. But the picture of me walking around and around the library gazing at the books in amazement for what felt like hours on end, day after day, never leaves my mind. I had never seen that many and huge book walls anywhere.

The following year, 1976, I started schooling in Grade 7 at Lusakaโ€™s Olympia Primary School. That a mobile clinic came to the school for pupilsโ€™ periodic medical check-ups and the like wasnโ€™t such a big deal. But the first day a mobile library came over, I was positively shocked beyond words. It soon dawned upon me that, with such ample access to books, it was no wonder that Zambian Black people were not only doctors and nurses, they were pilots, train drivers, army commanders, and all sorts of things Black people of South Africa were not.

Iโ€™d eventually be member of both the British Council and American libraries in Lusaka. From the former, a book on running made the biggest impression on me. Such that when my Karate teacher and life mentor, Professor Stephen Chan, OBE, suggested that we, the then senior-most students at the University of Zambia Karate Club in 1983, take part in the maiden Lusaka Marathon run that year, I had long been mentally ready for it.

From the American library, the one book that made the biggest impression on me was on the freedom of speech concept. I recall its stand that whereas freedom of speech was indeed a fundamental human right, it was important to remember that there are moral and legal constraints as to how far we could say what we will on any subject, to anybody. Freedom of speech is not an entitlement to be malicious to others. In connection with the freedom of speech ideas, the book also touched the subject of truth telling. It argued that truth must be told always, but not necessarily at any cost. If currently telling the truth could cause more harm than good, then it may not be a bad idea to withhold it until conditions are more favourable, if ever.

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2022
Author/ Storyteller/ Poet/ Publisher/ Warrior/ Machona Son

And then in 1982-86, the University of Zambia Library became my books haven. Many of us students and the academic staff did our research here. This institution consolidated the intellectual foundation upon which this my new writing career stands.

During the years preceding university studies commencement, I used to have much informal political education talks with a selection of some older South African freedom fighter veterans based in Lusaka in those days.

One of the veterans, Comrade Lerumo, once said to me, โ€œSy, when you analyse any issue, you must always look at it from both opposing sides. When you read in your research, read books, or any other relevant form of written presentation, articulated from opposing perspectives. Do the same when you listen to world news on the radio; listen to everybody, whether you agree with them or not. Thatโ€™s how we become intellectual powerhouses, able to solve problems effectively as they arise because we know how everybody thinks.โ€

Comrade Lerumo went on to say, โ€œThe sad situation is that surprisingly many of our leaders in exile donโ€™t read. If they do read at all, itโ€™ll be a book on Marxism here, Che Guevara there, and Chairman Moa there and there. Theyโ€™ll recite a stanza or two of a Shakespeare and think that they are smart. Tragic!โ€

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2020
Author/ Storyteller/ Poet/ Publisher/ Warrior/ Machona Son

The UNZA Library provided me with all the books I ever needed for a successful university  studies career. These days I have access to major world libraries in the palms of my hand, at the tips of my fingers. In principle, no one can hide from me a once formally published book. No one can absolutely hinder me from publishing a book, formally or otherwise.

From the outset I write with good intentions. I write with a pure heart, my imperfections notwithstanding. Because Iโ€™m non-cantankerous by propensity, I consciously choose to write non-offensive, uplifting books; upholding principles of freedom of speech and truth telling with responsibility. At the same time, I do not expect that my writings shall be appreciated by all. Iโ€™m not a popularity contests writer. I write as a free spirit without fear or favour, simply practicing what book reading has taught me over the years. Itโ€™s a privilege to have the opportunity to contribute to the growth of humanityโ€™s reading material data base.

Writing books has liberated my soul. The worlds I create with my books instil in me a sense of peace and love beyond words. Each publication of any writing of mine is an attempt to portray the workings of the peace and love that I feel. Although it is for the observer to judge my deeds, inside of me I feel Iโ€™ve become a better person breathing and walking as an author.  Books have outright saved my life. In more ways than one. Plain and simple.

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2022
Author/ Storyteller/ Poet/ Publisher/ Warrior/ Machona Son

If we want this our world to be a better place for all, it’s symptomatic of intellectual bankruptcy to ban books that tell and expose truths about transgressions we have historically, and continue to commit over one another. That depending on the balances of power according to race, political orientation, and other artificial human discriminatory categories and practices.                     

Good or bad, truthful or malicious, once a book is written and published, itโ€™ll stand the test of time in numerous formats. Thatโ€™s why we have, amongst others, national libraries and archives. Power is in writing another book to counter or falsify a book that proliferates undesirable messages. Better yet, power is in writing another book to take already existing progressive literature to ever higher levels.

Banning of books prejudicially classified by powers that be is tantamount to running away from the truth, running away from the self. Banning of books is denialism of the existence of oneโ€™s deeds tracks in history. Banning of books fakes presentation of the present as if the present begins and ends in itself. Living the present on fake presuppositions is sure a promise of a future of ignorance and non-sustainable existential premises. As it is, it is evident that a current exercise of banning of books enshrining enlightenment and wisdom is a consequence of forces of ignorance and destruction having had the upper hand in the past, distant and near.

Truth frightens the guilty. Cowards fear for life confrontations of truths about themselves. They shall ban and burn books, they shall incarcerate and murder writers, but cowards in the form of fascists shall never ever succeed in erasing the urge for truth search and expression that is at the core of being human.

In the 21st Century of unprecedented potential for making planet earth a place called heaven for all, USA (The Ununited States of America), the most powerful nation on earth, is in an orgy of banning books. As if the Coronavirus pandemic and the January 6 insurrection werenโ€™t bad enough. Amongst others, these books lay bare the truths about one of the essential elements of the foundations upon which the economic might of the USA stands: the trans-Atlantic slave trade. This endeavour inhumanely uprooted African people to go and work in slavery the initially cotton-based American agro-industry.

Classified as inferior humans, American-enslaved Africans lived and worked under the most appalling, dehumanizing conditions. Modern day USA racism against people of African descent and others stems from the earliest days of European settlement and subsequent colonization of the north American continent. Truth as plain and undeniable as can be.

Slavery in the USA formally ended in 1865. In the Euro-USA context, though, racism as a social construct continues to seek to perpetuate artificial racial inequalities that have been developed to sustain oppression of Black and other People of Colour. This phenomenon is experienced in other parts of the world also (The Middle East, China, Eurasia), notably Australia, South Africa, and other areas of the world where Euro colonialism has had a lasting imprint. The idea being to infinitely suppress the oppressed so as to maintain them in perpetual subservience. That way forcing them, the People of Colour, to continue selling themselves cheaply for the benefit of the superior White race. Baloney, of course.

Through research and critical analysis of historical facts, books are written in order that knowledge about the truth about where the USA comes from, and what values make and break it can be disseminated as wide and durably as possible. In here is included books countering anti-Semitic literature and the anti-Jewish sentiment as a whole, both in the USA, Europe, and globally.

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2022
Author/ Storyteller/ Poet/ Publisher/ Warrior/ Machona Son

Banning and burning of books is knowledge dissemination delayed and denied. I shudder to think about the future of America when literacy rates are as low as they are today. All explicable in historical terms, of course. When some of the leading books banning proponents are Ivy League universities graduates, it may be arguable that many a student enter these institutions with but half-baked academic maturity. No wonder the country is in such a socio-politico mess spearheaded by educated fools. Unversed American children raised by conspiracy theories pregnant America can only but keep the fires of American Nightmare burning in all perpetuity. Trash begets trash. In that case, they can ban me with pleasure for my broken Dream of America.

In Africa, an educated fool emerged from anti-liberation struggle imprisonment once. He had seven university degrees to his name. Obtained from studies behind prison walls with limited access to relevant research literature, the degrees could only have been half-baked. The man brought his country to its knees. He is dead now. His country is on stumps; amputation wounds chronically infected. No school books in the country. Teachers are running away before they lose their knees. Future of intellectually bankrupt America as dire as that of country balancing on stumps that wonโ€™t heal. ย ย ย ย ย ย ย 

SIMON CHILEMBO
OSLO
NORWAY
TEL.: +4792525032
February 05, 2022

AMERICAN NIGHTMARE

DIDN’T GO AMERICA 

And, so

I didnโ€™t

Go to America

I felt robbed

Yet again

God had decided

To screw

My wishes  

Yet I had prayed and prayed and prayed

Prayed since I was a  child

I saw beautiful Americaย 

In the bioscope

King Kong

Swept me off my feet

Made me believe

I could reach for the sky

Higher than him

Upon the World Trade Center

I was smarter than him  

After all

If only I could

Get into the screen  

Off the wall

All I had to do was to

Go to America

I dreamed 

Heard on the radio

As 

Neil Armstrongโ€™s first one step

On the moon

Was reported

A giant leap

For mankind

Was recorded

When other children and I

On my township streets

Enthralled

Sang about that moment

Monna wa pele

Ya hatileng ngoeling

Ke mang

Ke Armstrong  

It was clear to me that

In America

The world couldnโ€™t hold a man down

Iโ€™d go to America

When grown up

Iโ€™d be doctor in America

I believed

Science ruled in America

The day

I ate

The body of Christ  

Father Hammel had earlier

Convinced me that

I was a chosen one

Child of God

The bishop-with-no-name

Later came and

Patted my cheek

Nearer to the heart  

My entry

Into the kingdom of God was confirmed

My wishes

Would be her command

For as long as I lived

America brace yourself

But

I didnโ€™t

Go to America

At night

Year in and year out

I slept

Deep as I could

In the event that

Spirits of my ancestors

Came my way

Iโ€™d be wholly

Receptive to their guidance

As to how and when

Iโ€™d go to America

I went on to sleep

Hours on end

In daytime

Many a year in

Many a your out

To no avail

I didnโ€™t go to America

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2021

Dejected

Faith gone

To places I couldnโ€™t fathom

Only God

Only ancestral spirits

Knew

I felt cheated

Terrible  

First

They dropped me

Not only

In the darkest continent

Africa

But Africa

Where my blackness

Was a curse from birth

Where

I only dreamt

Blood raining on me

Everywhere

In everything I did

Every bloody day

Iโ€™d at times wake up

In a fog of blood

All around me

Hard to breathe

No wonder

Ancestral spirits

Could never reach me

Could never speak with me

In South Africa

Land of my birth

God favoured

White people compassion-deprived  

Favoured with greed

Favouring oppression of the conquered  

As they knew it in Europe

Where they had been scummed

Their previous lives

The wretched of the wretched

Reproducing the ever wretched  

Of the earth

Souls broken

Dehumanized by their own

The original landed

Self-imposed rulers of man

Creators of God

Who ruled

By the sword

Subsequently the gun

Now the drone

Not forgetting

Intercontinental ballistic missiles

No blood, no victory

No blood, no insurrection

No blood , no subversion

No blood, no suppression 

No blood, no subservience

No blood, no annihilation  

What a bloody mess

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2021

In Europe they had kingdoms

They had the church

In South Africa

Kingdoms morphed into Apartheid state

The church remained  

Multi-pronged

In the name of God

Of many faces

The wretched of the wretched

Propagating the ever wretched

Of the earth

The only thing they knew   

White people spilt

Black peopleโ€™s blood there

In South Africa  

People killing people

Became a way of life there

Not much has changed

So much blood everywhere there

People stabbed

People gunned

People molested

Bled and ran

Bled and fell

People died in pools of blood

When I saw blood

I knew I was alive

I got older

I knew I had to

Get out of there

America calling, baby

Olโ€™ Blue Eyes

Came out voice blazing

Singing

New York

New York

And all my doubts were squashed

I just had to go to America

New York

New York

City that never sleeps

Just perfect for me

Too much blood

In my dreams

During sleep

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2021

Mr Black President Mandela

Of South Africa

Came and went

As if from nowhere

Mr Black President Obama

Emerged in  America  

Went and buried

Mr Black President Mandela

Black Power

Circle of life complete

In Mzansi fo sho   

Mr Black President Obama

Of America

Charmed

All charmable people of the world

Incredulous

Angry White peopleโ€™s worlds

In disarray

Black-people-detesting cells

In their blood boiled

Resorted to the only trait they know

Violence

Lynching of Black people urge

Pervasive as porn

Diabolical must be a place in America

Where they donโ€™t know a thing

About democracy

Tyrants

Getting kicks out of

Shameless display

Of ignorance entangled in

Bungled communisocialism theories    

Heads or tails of which

They donโ€™t know at all

Founded upon slippery

Coagulated blood-paved intellectual grounds

Some gone to school

I canโ€™t help but wonder

From which planet

The books theyโ€™ve read are

Their libraries must be

Drenched in blood

They must have been taught by

Crooked professors

Fake

Blood-sucker intelligentsia

Soiling academia of the world

Ivy League universities

I gotta ask

What went wrong

With these people

Or is it you

Whatโ€™s become of you

Once upon a time

Revered seats of knowledge

Astonishing     

Black people of the world

Caught Obama fever

Chronic

Need no inoculation

Obama ainโ€™t Corona

Got

Obama talk

Got

Obama walk  

Yah, man

Bob Marley had said it before

Everythingโ€™s gonna be alright

No more cry, woman

No more cry, man

Dry your tears

Black child  

Martin Luther Kingโ€™s

Dream had come true  

We had overcome

Free at last

America

Watch me

Iโ€™m coming home

Miley Cyrus

Whereโ€™s the party, babe

Thereโ€™s

A party in the USA

The Un-United States of America

Amidst the Obama euphoria

I heard a gunshot here

KABOOM!!!

A gunshot there and there

KABOOM!!! BOOM!!!

Black man 

Ceased to breathe here

Ceased to breathe there

Die

Nigger

Die 

Reality come home  

Gruesome

Genocidal Apartheid South Africa

Upon my heels

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2021

White America

Not unlike

God-favoured

White South Africa

Compassion-deprived   

Favoured with greed

Favouring oppression of

Black people

People of colour

Rose

Showed its true colours

Emboldened

Raw to the extreme

No brakes

No remorse

Despicable

Mr President Doughnut Prump  

Hit the scene

Raving mad   

Apartheid lunacy

Taken to another stage

Up or down

Just as vile

If not worse

Mr Vice President Penceโ€™ gallows  

Spelt it all out in

The Capitol gardens

Obscene

Like they used to

Parade the streets with

Decapitated heads

Of their own

On stakes

In yesteryearโ€™s Europe

Delinquent

White America

Spoilt brats

Seek to burn San Francisco flowers

On Madame Speaker Pelosiโ€™s head

Shut her beak

Meanwhile

Paul Gosar

Unhinged

Animates

Ms Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez

Woman of colour

He could never match

In any way

Kills her

On the digital world stage

Ghastly

Appalling

Repeating history

As is customary

Killing his own

In 21st Century America of all colours

On the streets

In the name of justice

For paralysed-Kenosha-police-seven-times-shot-in-the-back-unarmed

Jacob Blake

Delinquent

White America

Spoilt brat

Kyle Rittenhouse

Just normalized

Vigilantism in America

Critical Race Theory

Comprehension bereft

Children of America

Just fallen deeper into

The abyss of hell    

Horrendous  

Out on the streets

On a

Longevity enhancing jog

Unarmed

Posing no threat to no one

Black America young man

Ahmaud Marquez Arbery

Met his demise

In the hands of

Genocidal white Americaโ€™s

Travis McMichael

In the murder trial court of whom

The latterโ€™s defence lawyer

Wants not to see

Men of God in

Black America personas

Outrageous     

On second thoughtsย ย 

They can keep their America

My God ainโ€™t too bad after all

Neither are my ancestral spirits

Gonna find me

Pure white as snow

Polar bear
END
ยฉSimon Chilembo 18/11-2021

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2021

RECOMMENDATION: Do you want to start writing own blog or website? Try WordPress!

PS
Order, read, and be inspired by my 7th book, Covid-19 and I: Killing Conspiracy Theories. It might save yours and your loved oneโ€™s lives.

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2020

CONSEQUENCES – A Poem

CHOICES

Akin to
Dead men walking
Free spirits
Are indifferent to pain
Suffering unbeknown
Know no barriers
Are of all times
Immortality
Is the name of their being

Akin to the wind
Dead men walking
Free spirits
Embrace space
Devoid of sentiment
Propelled by
The fair and righteous
Infused with clear conscience
Akin to that
Of saints

I made my choices
I took my chances
You made your choices
You took no chances
You the illusory chosen one
Sitter on the
Right hand of God
Centre of the universe
In your comfort zone
Delusional
You cry foul
At the world
You decry makers of you
For thorns and no roses
In your comfort zone
As if they
Your makers
Pruned the flowers
And left you in the bush
When the choice to stay was yours
Ultimately
You ought
To have seen the autumn
Cease coming your way
Aeons gone by
Grown man

You could never learn
How to harvest
Never learned
How to sow
In the first place
Akin to
Baby bird
Who never left the nest
Soundless
Mouth agape
From dusk to dawn
Season after season
Anticipating feeding time
Long gone with the elements
Catastrophe

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2021

Akin to
Destitute baby bird
Who never left the nest
Your mamma is dead
So is your dad
I could never be them
Even if I wanted to
I could never replicate
Their parental obligations to you

Much as
I long for heiresses and heirs
My progeny
Products of my loins
Carrying my blood
In their flesh and bones
Made not like bread
You could never be them
Even if I wanted you to be
Miracles of nature
Have their limits


Ancient Greece mythology
Created Oedipus
It never worked out well for the man
Poor soul crushed
He gouged out his own eyes
Tragedy

And now
You want to
Shoot my brains out
Kill me dead already
Can you take
The ricochet
Dead men walking
Free spirits
Die only once
Forget the resurrection jive, man
It isnโ€™t I who killed promises of
The fiasco
That is the mark of the beast of
Your comfort zones
All I ever did
Was to seek to
Blow light over your life
Or did I come out too strong
Struck like lightning
When I chose not
To plunge into
A miserable life
Of men of no vision
Succumbed to wretchedness of the earth

When youโ€™ve attuned your eyes
To seeing
Only evil spirits in the air
You could never see
The good of my intentions
Pure as silence
In the domain of
Dead men walking
Disentangled
From thorns of love nor hate
Only drawn towards
The fair and just
Amongst the living

You wanna know
How to grow
The #Midas touch
How to
Reap gold
From what you sow
Open your eyes
To the light
Be humble
Be a little grateful
Look and learn
Dead men walking
Amongst the living
Have it all
END
ยฉSimon Chilembo 12/10-2021

SIMON CHILEMBO
OSLO
NORWAY
Telephone: +4792525032

RECOMMENDATION: Do you want to start writing own blog or website? Try WordPress!

PS
Order, read, and be inspired by my 7th book,ย Covid-19 and I: Killing Conspiracy Theories. It might save yours and your loved one’s lives.

ยฉSimon Chilembo 2020
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