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ANGRY BLACK MAN – Poem

ANGRY BLACK MAN

Are you afraid now
Have I just
Pulled your illusory
Comfort zone carpets
From under your feet

Have I suddenly become
Your worst nightmare
Come to life
Blacker than
The abyss into hell
Spewing flames of
Raging fires
Splashing volcanic lava
All over your terrified face
Rolling down your
Blood drawn
Protective hands
Your body frozen stiff
As if Sodom and Gomorrah’s
Pillar of salt 

No, it’s not the end of the world yet
You are still alive
I burn you with my words
Salivary showers follow my speech
Not to give you comfort
But to moderate the heat somewhat
You mustn’t pulverize yet
I need you alive
You gotta hear what I gotta say to you
Even if yours are lead-soldered ears
Read my lips, nincompoop  

Fuck ’n ’ell
You bet I am angry
I am fuck ’n furious
I’ve had more than enough
Of your dehumanization of me
Year in and year out
Over five fuckin’ hundred years
Not only do you continue stealing 
Wealth of my land
You have made it your mission to
Eradicate me from planet earth
Only because
You decided to make me
Black and abominable

Whilst you took
My forefathers by surprise
And overwhelmed them with
Your uncanny brutality
I am a different ball game
In my time
I know you
More than you really ever cared to know me

How could you ever
Know me
When you’ve numbed your senses
To the suffering you cause me
To this day

Talking to you
Is like talking to faces
Of a desolate mountain
In the middle of nowhere

Crying in front of you
Is like
Crying in the middle of a desert
My tears evaporate before hitting the ground
The only thing your eyes see
Is the sub-human
Your sick mind has made me into

You don’t respect me
You don’t respect my humanity
You’ve emasculated my forefathers
You’ve raped my foremothers
So much humiliation
Have you subjected my people to
But now you have reached
The end of the road

Read my lips
Yes, I am one
Angry Black Man
My rage is wild
My rage is raw

I’ve harnessed all
The blood and thunder of my people
I shriek with every breathing cell in my body
To thrash your senses back to life
To awaken you to reality
Of my time
I want what is mine back
I want my humanity back

Things will never be the same for you
Your time is up
Shut the fuck up
You’ve said enough
You’ve caused enough damage already
My bitterness is five hundred years old
You can’t stop me now
GRRRRHHHRRR…MHRRR…!!!
You wanna hide now
I’ll search for you 
I’ll find you
This world is mine

©Simon Chilembo  
(19/ 11- 2019)

OSLO
NORWAY
Telephone: +4792525032
December 03, 2019

38 YEARS AN EXILE: XXVI

HOME AT LAST! Part 26

 

Schooling in the Diaspora – Kamwala Secondary School

©Simon Chilembo, 2014

©Simon Chilembo, 2014

1975 was the longest year. My first calendar year in Zambia was nine months long, which felt like time barely existed, with no beginning I recalled being part of, no end, and no direction in sight. Time was an idea just there to relate to indifferently.

The three months on the rails and road it took my family and me to get to Zambia from South Africa had bruised my sense of reality, presenting life’s challenges in a totally new way, and intensity. My family relations internal dynamics changed in ways that many mistakes made along the way have never been repairable.

New things learnt we each processed and integrated each in our own individual lives, each in our own unique personal ways. I often like to think that the extremely high senses of individuality and independence my two siblings and I will exhibit in critical choice times and situations, were consolidated during this time … (Continued in the book: “MACHONA AWAKENING – home in grey matter”. Order book on Amazon here). 

Simon Chilembo
Riebeeckstad
Welkom
South Africa
July 23, 2015

WAR IS WAR, PART II

The Side I Take

In a perfect world, and according to Gospel Chilembo, all intelligent, thinking, reasoning, rational, and knowledgeable human beings ought to know that WAR IS WAR.

The sole purpose and intention of war are to kill. Annihilate the enemy.

As true as death is the ultimate outcome of living, the first most likely to go in all wars are the most vulnerable, the least protected, and yet some of the most innocent of beings: Children, mothers that are, mothers to be, the sick, the weak, the poor, animals. These days, even world travellers, sitting enclosed in aeroplanes, and, in that environment, seemingly as innocent and unknowing of the ways of the world as children in mothers’ wombs, get shot down like birds of game in the sky. That is the nature of war. Sick.

Around negotiation and bargaining tables, nobody dies. There are no children here, there are no weak and vulnerable here; there are no poor mothers that are, mothers to be. Those who die, if at all, round negotiation tables, are simply those who are unfit and unhealthy from before … (Continued in the book: MACHONA BLOGS – As I See It. Order Simon Chilembo books on Amazon)


Simon Chilembo

Welkom
South Africa
July 20, 2014

 

AFRICANS: SKIN COLOUR JOKES. VICTIMS?

Responding to Norwegian Aftenposten newspaper article:

Simon Chilembo, Chief Executive President

Simon Chilembo, Chief Executive President

My aunt ‘Mabatho/ Mother of The People, if, on a good day, you were to call on her unannounced in the morning, you’d find her shabbily dressed in a tattered nightdress. Her eyes will be red; face as radiant as sunset orange in the Free State veld, though. She will give you this warm hug, kiss you reassuringly on the forehead, saying softly, “Ngwanake/ My child, they were here again. Ohhh, I am so tired …”

From time to time, our family ancestral spirits visit my aunt. She says they are ever so angry and bitter at the world. They want to burn the world down for the evil on it, the evil that destroyed my aunt’s life forever. She will fight with them all night, preventing them from unleashing their wrath out on the world.

In retrospect, my aunt says her own anger and bitterness towards those who grossly abused her is not so much in their abhorrent acts, but in that they did not kill her in the process. When you are dead and gone, you don’t hear, you don’t see, you don’t feel; when you are dead, you live above morons.

In a botched (White) farm robbery in the Free State in the 1970s, my aunt, then working as a domestic maid on the farm, was severely beaten up and successively raped by 6 men, 2 Whites, and 4 Blacks.

When it was understood that the police were on the way, the two Whites turned against their Black colleagues, and shot them dead on the spot. The former denied abusing my aunt, claiming that they had in fact come to defend the farm as they had earlier on received a tip-off about the impending robbery.

“How can decent, God fearing boerefolk have sex with a dirty kaffir woman? We beat her up a bit to teach her a lesson never to collaborate with other kaffir criminals who come to rob our farms. We had to execute these four criminals here because their original intention was to come and kill the people of the farm. Self-defence, you see?” they said to the police.

My aunt was arrested, and served 3 years in jail. It’s said that the two Whites went to war in Rhodesia, and never came back.

My aunt’s ordeal was too much to bear for her husband. One day, the man decided to hug a goods train moving towards him at high speed. Pieces of his body were picked up and placed in a plastic bag as if it was meat to be fed to crocodiles.

Despite the way-out traumas in her life, without any professional help forthcoming, my aunt went on to raise her three children to decent adulthood. She makes a living of some sorts selling umqumbothi, as well as some special traditional tobacco.

This true story will make most sense, and will be familiar, to those who have felt in their flesh and bones, Apartheid in the pre-1994 South Africa, as well as other forms of institutionalized forms of racism against Black people anywhere else in the world.

When Black/ African people yell, weep and cry, laugh, sing and dance demanding recognition and respect for their feelings, as well as their sense of integrity and honour, we are doing this in the face of real injustices that have been perpetrated on and against, and upon, us for generations.

It is basely moronic for some arrogant and apparently incompetently incompetent White intellectuals, academics, philosophers, and artists to want to define for us Black people how to respond to all forms of racism directed towards us, both as a global collective, and/ or as individuals wherever we may be in the world at any one time … (Continued in the book: MACHONA BLOGS – As I See It. Order Simon Chilembo books on Amazon)


Simon Chilembo

Welkom
South Africa
June 08, 2014

 

38 YEARS AN EXILE IV

HOME AT LAST! Part 4
Love In Exile/ Women of Exile

Exile land women in love with men in exile get less recognition, acknowledgement, and respect than they deserve.

Were I a woman, I would never ever fall in love with an exile man in my land. Exile men are nothing but a load of trouble.

However, my South African mother did fall in love, and eventually got hitched to an exile man from far off Northern Rhodesia. Now, look what we got! Americans got Obama … (Continued in the book: “MACHONA AWAKENING – home in grey matter”. Order book on Amazon’s CreateSpace here)

 

Simon Chilembo, President/ CEO

 

Simon Chilembo
Riebeeckstad
Welkom
South Africa
March 28, 2014