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She Said

“At some point you learn that you can survive it, then you start to see it as normal. A day without abuse becomes an unusual feeling. Then It got through Suddenly the abuse was a part of me The violence stroked me raw, And I did not bleed

Can you imagine? Waiting for the sign that you are worth something and it does not arrive Could you survive?”

#poetry

kebotho

Stories

In a weird way The best stories aren’t sensational. The hero runs slow, If he runs at all.

The tap in the guest bathroom leaks, Everynight. The alarm clock is the fifth shortcut, Some days he forgets to set it.

He is really good at being alone, Some nights he rates that’s his superpower. I guess fear of being alone is a weakness the rest of us share.

But not him.

He does not harbour ambitions of saving the world, Making Mama happy is plenty fulfillment. Content is both a feeling and an experience. So he perceives the universe twice.

Once at birth, Then once again in death.

#poetry

kebotho

“That’s the thing about war son. You need to feed the guns, the soldiers, and their families.’

“Who is at war?”

“You are; don’t you get it?”

“At war with who?’

“Yourself”

“But I am one, I cannot be both offender and offended. I cannot be both opposition and ally.”

“You are merely of the belief that you are one”

———————————————————————————————————–

I’ve learnt how to rescue myself.

From the edges of hopelessness.

When your father leaves your life at a young age, the rest is a reaction.

The parts of ourselves we sell for the antidote,

Leave with trace amounts of our spirituality.

The evil we do to ourselves,

Even though hidden,

Never leaves us.

I touch the back of my left hand to feel something.

Some nights I empathise with the girl 8 doors up who cuts her wrists.

It percolates within

What is shocking is not that we are capable,

It’s how comfortable it all feels.

On an oddly cold spring evening.

The gravity of my quarter-century existence,

Rests squarely on my prefrontal-cortex.

I can hardly lift my head above sea-level.

So, I try get comfortable with drowning.

It’s hard for me not to wonder what you are looking at,

While I close my eyes.

Draw life from my lungs with your touch.

Even when we are not communicating, I feel loved by you.

I believe we are often times in harmony,

you and I.

Must existence be spectacular?

Can magic rest in the crests of low frequency hums?

Some nights feel like nothing on the skin,

We hardly feel the air currents as we undress.

I sneak in deep breaths

Loneliness burns in the light,

So, I let the fireflies circle.

There is molten honour,

At the core of a bent knee,

Let alone two.

The Knights Templar kneel in front of the holy grail,

Like I kneel at the foot of this bed,

Crowned. My Queen

Power came in reservation.

So, I learnt how to tip-toe.

“Learn to move without a sound”

Add grace to abandonment.

Be artistic,

If done well,

Even pain is sweet.

Even pain tastes like past joys.

I don’t know what this means,

But I see you more vividly when I hurt you.

The shear weight of your tears leaves deep grooves.

Undeniable stains.

I ask the rain if we are test tubes.

If the omnipotent scientists are waiting for the

Latin blood and the Tswana flesh to react.

To burn.

Like a gravitational wave tipping natures hat,

Our first encounter ripples through us, every day.

How do you lay down paper towels across the galaxies?

“You don’t, you can’t”

Everything spills over, eventually.

#poetry

jakelamtn

Reflects

A man sits beside himself on a bench. He always finds himself here, late at night after a rainy day, watching the reflections of street lights in ripples on the canal. He turns towards himself, then up to the glowing sky. There are sirens in the distance, there were always sirens in the distance.

He sighs. The slowly pulsing lights on the bridge catch his eye. Are they new? How had he not seen them before?

“It’s funny, the things you notice on your way out.”

He agrees, then quickly shakes the thought. How long had he been here anyway? Why was he always here? He tries to look at himself again, but quickly turns his head to the ground.

“It’s always there, you know.”

He knows, but feels as though he’s floating, drifting along with the waves that carry the light across the surface of the water. How much longer will it be?

“I don’t know, but I’m here now.”

He drops his head into his hands, too exhausted to cry or scream or lash out at the darkness like he had before. This is it, he thinks.

Nodding, “this is it.”

Slowly, they turn. His beard is grey and unkempt, his lips are cracked and his skin is marked with scars. Sitting alone on this bench, they look into eachother’s eyes for the first time. Never before had they felt so distant and alone.

👋🏾✊🏾

Ubuntu and the sun 🌕 Give it to me Until we are undone

#ubuntu

#onceinjoburg

instagram

The Art of Daily Life in Lesotho

To follow more of his portraiture and documentary work, follow @thom.pierce on Instagram.

“Photography is such an amazing tool to be able to immediately engage people,” says Thom Pierce (@thom.pierce). “You can pull them into a story that they wouldn’t necessarily engage with in another way.” A British photographer based in Cape Town, Thom gravitates to projects that are equal parts art, documentary and portraiture — like his series of striking horseback portraits from Lesotho, a mountainous kingdom surrounded on all sides by South Africa. “The whole country is pretty much just rural villages. Some people live miles and miles away from each other and away from the nearest shops, so they have to spend much of their days traveling,” he says. Through these gentle portraits, made during casual encounters along the roads crisscrossing Lesotho, Thom surfaces deeper observations about local geography and culture that someone across the world may not otherwise encounter. “You’ll notice that nobody is moving fast,” Thom says. “The idea was that we would take time to sit and talk to people, and let everybody be comfortable within the photograph. That’s why I think that there’s a sense of stillness and magic.”