my mother scraped asked & begged
& did what not & took me to a
sangoma. the healer had flames in
her eyes & the smell in her little
room full of bones & dark bottles &
herbs & animal skins sat down
heavily on my stomach. with a dirty
rusty razor she made incisions on
my elbows forehead chest & ankles.
she rubbed snuff mixed with
something other in the little wounds.
i drank litres of water plus some
other medicine on her order stuck
two fingers deep in my mouth &
vomited. she saw stories of early
death & foreboding times for me in
my vomit... when they slaughtered
two chickens & smeared the blood
over me i didn't lose consciousness.
but i have been doing so ever since.
"I've never celebrated nor embraced negativity in
my life. Every single thing I have tried to do or
written has come out of a need to actually
eradicate or wipe out whatever it is that seeks to
destroy the soul of other people."
"I respect the WORD. People talk about wordplay, I
don't play with it... it's one of the most powerful
weapons in the world."
Related Subjects
Fiction Literary Criticism Literary Criticism & Collections Literature & Fiction Poetry