A Day.

(Word of advice. Do not mix first dates and The Beach Boys. It accentuates everything.)

This I wrote after.

Tawanda W.T Mulalu was a firm advocate for the gathering of information, and therefore decided that some time on Google really wouldn't hurt. So yes, quite literally Tawanda found himself on Wikihow looking at how to handle himself the next day. In his mind, Tawanda seriously thought that he could easily mess himself up and show himself as the nervous wreck he actually was, or thought he was. Apparently, self-deception plays an integral role in the social interactions of human beings in... Does it matter? Tomorrow was going to be strenuous and he needed someway to deal with it. And the joys of internet information gathering could easily do so. Even after the extended 'research' period Tawanda had spent the time conducting, Tawanda decided he need a back-up, a fail-safe in case he was hopelessly boring tomorrow. 

A piece of paper and a pen. Not only would it create a writing opportunity and some point, he could easily say: "Let's play noughts and crosses!" to save him from awkward silence. If that happened, he could at least hear the sweet scribbling of a pen: sweet. He listened to music as he slept, and enjoyed the darkness of the night.

*

Morning. The boy woke up with a urgent sense that something important was happening today. He opened his eyes and raised his abdomen from the soft cushioning of sleep, and struggled to wipe the dream off his face. This important event, what was happening? Why was it urgent? Debate again?

It was a late morning and it was warm and sunny. The rays of the sun travelled through the windows.

And then-

Oh yes, the boy thought.  That. 

He lifted himself up from the bed, with a mixture of dread and rush. The dread as a result of his usual anxious paranoia. The rush, the usual happy sensation felt when he was confronted with such situations. It was why he revelled in public speaking and even, oddly enough exam taking. Tawanda, occasionally actually enjoyed taking an exam.  Actually more than occasionally, he honestly found his Science and Maths exams…fun.

But this pre-exam feeling would not necessarily end with a pen and paper, and if it did, that would actually be really bad, considering how ludicrous the 'fail-safe' he concocted in his mind was. Either way, he took a bath and savagely scrubbed himself, he combed his hair, though not for the full hour the Fashionista suggested he so for, and he brushed his teeth more than once. He would be clean he decided. 

*

This I wrote as I pulled out a piece of paper at Milky Way and kept myself busy as I waited.

Astounding rushing and bustling of heat expansion; energy fuelled peoples revering in the thermos of consumerism. Tawanda W.T Mulalu sits still, rather uncomfortable as the only particle held frigidly motionless by the cold of nervousness and jitters. The smell of freshly cooked meant emanates into the confines of the ice-cream joint with its multi-coloured chairs. Red, purple, orange. Tawanda meanwhile felt purple, an interesting mellow colour that revealed much but little. He was writing. It was a perfect way to pass the time as he waited. What was the first thing he had to again? Yes, smile.

The great Fashionista in all her wisdom had told him to not

(1)    Cross his arms

(2)    Whistle

She had noted that these are two habits of his in uncomfortable situations. She also told him that if they went to Exclusive Books (Tawanda mentioned this because he absolutely knew that he wanted to end up at Exclusive Books but was a bit worried because he thought he might just get lost in the books and actually forget everything around him. Which would have been bad. Really bad. ) that he should offer to buy her one of those “cute” bookmark “thingies”  for her. Though, the Fashionista warned:

“When she says no, she means no brah.”

Tawanda decided to heed such advice. The way the Fashionista’s warning was outputted was serious. Therefore he would not take such advice lightly.

*

This, I also wrote after.

Poor Tawanda shook in surprised convulsion as he heard her voice from behind him. A surprise hello. She laughed, and he quickly turned to face her. What was the first thing he was supposed to again? Oh god, is this actually happening? She looked pretty, so he was pretty sure he smiled at some point, but oh what else? Dipstick, tell her she looks pretty. Oh yeah, that. He then told her. Though quickly, it wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to let linger. Ice-cream, he suggested.

And what followed, were extended conversations about vanilla vs. chocolate, music (Justin Bieber, One Direction, Kanye West, alternative rock, and 80/90s RnB and Hip Hop) , a few movies (500 Days of Summer), and at some point the show 'The Big Bang Theory' (in which Tawanda had attempted to explain a joke  he didn't even remember quite properly using the pen he brought and the receipt in which he drew the worst rending of y = tanx known to math. Also, its probably a good idea to not attempt to explain maths that she'll probably not need until two years later. To be fair, at least  he didn't get into Calculus). 

She had to leave, so Tawanda tried to see if Exclusive Books was still open. It wasn't. Musica was, so he decided to see what discount CDs he could get. He settled on 'The Very Best of The Beach Boys. In retrospect this was both a good and bad idea. 

Tawanda then saw Thapelo and Sedia chilling, he greeted them and Thapelo looked happy with The Beach Boys CD. 

*

Alright. Tawanda was now home listening to The Beach Boys. But then his little mind then mused something.

It was good,  and no one had to play noughts and crosses.

But, Tawanda W.T Mulalu, as the sky darkens and the day meets the night and you must fall asleep again...

What do you do now?

*

Well you know, I could certainly read. There's this wonderful college textbook called 'Understanding Poetry' that I'm skimming through right now... Wait a second... OR, I could totally do the normal thing and send a text like normal real people do. 

I know, I'm a genius.

You really can't go wrong once you learn a fact about yourself and the world around you.

Elmo's View of Debate I

ELMO'S VIEW OF DEBATE I- FORM ONE TO NATIONAL TEAM ASPIRATIONS

(This is the first part of a series that you’ll be seeing on my blog very often from now on….  Should be fun right? In any case, National selections were held for Secondary Students across the country to pick the top 10 debaters. After much sweat and blood, I have decided to examine some of my great moments as a debater since my Form One Days, to the present day. I also give a basic outline of what debate is actually like for us word warriors. In the next edition I’ll tell you a detailed explanation of what Debate is and the nature of Debate, and I’ll tell you more about our upcoming tournaments as the Captain of the Botswana Schools Team.)

I've had five great moments in Debate so far since Form One.

The first was when, in the rainy downpour of the late year, I, the only Form One in the whole of the MaP Debating Society was ranked as the top debater in the whole school. I was fourteen years old, and my hair was a bit shorter. I was quite starry eyed and happy, and I had this ability to flood everyone around me with my sunshine vitriol. I had gotten this position because of one book: The Caged Virgin by Ayaan Hirsi Ali.

The second moment was when I had presented my 'famous' "Logging Off Twitter" speech at the Books Botswana Debate Tournament 2012. I got second place because apparently I wasn't loud enough. Me, not loud enough! In any case I'd tell you all what the speech is about, but it's very embarrassing because it has to do with a girl. And I'll spare both of us any elaboration. This was the Public Speaking Category so really anything goes, one could speak on anything from Neo-imperialism and patriotism, capitalism and communism, and even stupid adolescent affection. My nickname for that tournament as given by Jamie, the great Uhuru Public Speaker was "the man with the big words."

The third moment was when, the night before I had to go for the National Debate Championships, as a confidence exercise, I would cry out to the starry night sky (I had fed the dogs late: I AM THE GREATEST DEBATER IN BOTSWANA! This gave me so much spirit, vigour and passion that I couldn't help but smile afterwards. I use this as my maxim at every tournament to inspire me.

The fourth moment was when I got my Sesame Street inspired nickname at Radisele, and the National Debate Championships. We were doing what is called a demo debate where an example debate is done to show people how the whole thing is done in terms of structure, style and so on. The demo debate consisted of University students but they asked one of the Secondary students to volunteer. I was the only one in that hall of about 500 kids to put their hand. Well I think a few other people put their hand up after me, but still, I was first. The debate was based on a principle motion, so arguments of morality came into place. I used Sesame Street and Elmo as examples of basic morality to undermine the opposing team and to add a bit of humour. Unfortunately, Fangz attacked me in his rebuttals by saying that "We're listening to a guy who takes his debating advice from Elmo." In the end, I still got a huge round of applause and felt proud. And the name Elmo stuck, everyone knew me by it.

The fifth moment was when I got selected as Captain of Botswana Schools Debate Team for 2012/2013. The message I received which I got on Facebook sparked an investigative stance from me. It said "Congratulations Captain, sir" from another team member. Looking at the official statement I was given the position of Team Captain. I think, I'm pretty sure I was the youngest. I'm pretty sure I secured this position after Justice (during Monkgogi and I's selections, he also got selected for the team by the way) heard my speech about my most important concern for the future. I said my Physics education and gave a passionate delivery about why I love Physics, and got to use the famous line: "Ahhhh, What a fine day for Science!"

For me, these are the moments I remember the most in Debate. While I've had plenty of others, my favourite being that they told me that varsity girls like Debaters. So really, no matter how miserable at high school I end up being, I've got a pretty awesome future set up. And I wish to craft many more as I go on, Debate for me is a lifestyle to which I wish to uphold the most fundamental principle in everything I do. And no, to my creationist friends, it isn't to argue. The principle happens to actually be a question: Why?

Debate is all about the one simple question, and that's why I love it some much, because I can link it to my love of Science and Philosophy. Debate is the complex, structured application of the why's and how's of knowledge. And it leads to brilliant results. Though Debate is seen as mostly a political, social and economic vehicle, I prefer looking at it from the less popular perspective, the scientific and philosophical stances and implications. This is why I hate policy motions but love principle motions. And why I'm the only debater I know who wants to a Physicist.

Debate isn't just arguing all day as most people assume. Arguing all day can be quite exciting even, or it can be gratingly irritating. It depends of the people and the structure of your arguments. People unwilling to learn equals a gratingly irritating argument where despite all the efforts, the more intelligent being never seems to be able to educate anyone. Arguing with smart people can be exciting but will eventually end in anger and irritation without structure. Debate is where all of this comes. For one thing, the presence of more than one speaker can help maintain a debate regardless of the intelligence levels of the participants, and structure gives the opportunity for everyone to voice their opinion fairly and allows the clear and distinct thinking to shine through. Of course, oftentimes this can become excruciatingly boring. But, structure, plus willingness to learn plus a good topic will make for a very exciting game of intellectual blood sport. I say blood sport because debate is very harsh, and there will always be victims in the clashes. But the process in which this done, the sheer excitement as a result of the debate as a whole, pretty much negates all the little whiny behaviours as a result of losing... unless you have terrible, biased adjudicators.

Debates, likes stories, have a beginning, middle and an end. They start with an introductory sequence of statements and arguments that define and explain a topic thoroughly, and from there on the debate flows on, arguments and rebuttals, until the conclusive summary offered at the end. It is from this data that the judges, the adjudicators, must judge who argued best from three criteria: content, speech making quality i.e. vocal delivery, eye contact and hand gestures and finally style: the structure and the way your speech was delivered.

Different types of speakers are prominent. You will have strong speech makers, who are loud and entertaining, but don't actually say anything worth really listening too. Mr. Laverick thinks I'm this type of speaker, and therefore said I would make a good dictator because I “say a lot of things but don't really mean anything". They are content speakers, quite, and calculating, these guys focus on the task at hand. These guys are very dangerous, Monkgogi is one of them. What they do is completely destroy the opposition with a second thought, without caring, without any sign of effort or fatigue... and they sit down calmly afterwards. Then they are style speakers, who pretty much use the crowd to their advantage. I, being a crowd pleaser, find myself close to this category, but I'm actually a mix between content and delivery.

Debate can be a very emotional sport to partake in. For one thing, you can feel the weight of your voice when you speak, and thousands of little eyes dart back and forth between your face and lips, the ears focused on you. It is stressing. But if you suck. No such attention is paid to you. This feeling is worse than the stress. Tears fall in abundance at these tournaments. Feelings of inadequacy and defeat, of sheer hopelessness at the prospect of having your dreams and ideas shattered by a particularly intelligent opponent. Or even that horrible, horrible dread of not feeling good enough.

At a basic level, Debate compromises of these things, structure, speakers, emotion, great moments, stories, advice. But most importantly every debate is a learning opportunity. Once the tears are wiped, once hands shake together, once the silence of anxiety in a room is broken as the results are announced.... These, and so much more make up debate.

And as we continue all these journeys together, as we create more great moments together, perhaps this article will become slightly more complete, but for now...

All Batswana reading this support your team. Help get us sponsorship from the likes of Private Companies and beyond. But most of all believe in us so we can reach greater heights in Debate. So we feed this hunger for learning, this desperate need to think. Support us, and help us feel, that we are indeed, the Greatest Debaters!

Debate has horizons that extend everywhere and affects all of us. From the bickering that happens in the Security Council and the General Assembly in the U.N to the stuff happening in the government in our own country. This is why it’s so important that we foster this spirit, this want, this need to learn in any way we can. And Debate, is just another brilliant way for us to apply that simple question that has lead mankind to greater heights: Why?

Good luck Team Botswana.

"Ahhhh.... What a fine day for Science!"

Debate: The Final Selections, and The Radio Interview Part 1

Monkgogi Buzwani and Tawanda W.T Mulalu felt quite terse as they realized the impending danger of the situation. They could actually not make it. They could feel the unease echo inside their swallowing throats as they looked at the disappointment in Mr.Wale and Justice's faces. They were bored, and worse: they were telling Monkgogi and Tawanda that they are bored. They had to up their games, apparently the selections outside of Gaborone were beyond rough. People were impassioned with that fiery spirit of debate... and people cried even.

Monkgogi understandably was a chilled debater,  it  was not in his fashion to be "impassioned with that fiery spirit of debate" nor was he going to pull up a smile unless it was mockingly directed to his failing opposing team. Tawanda meanwhile was a crowd-pleaser. He needed a large audience to generate loud waves of endless applause and laughter. He was reminded of Barrack Obama's performance in the Presidential Debates. At least he won the election, well barely. 

"I am the greatest debater." These are the words Tawanda would constantly repeat to himself to give him that confidence. It were the words that he shouted to the night before his fated journey to Radisele, were he would, incidentally get the honour of being the first debater overall. The words echoed throughout his mind, his throat was dry with the rust of long term emptiness. He needed the river in esophagus  to flow with the golden words that could claim him victory. At the very least, he needed to say something extraordinarily smart quickly. Monkgogi meanwhile, decided that he needed  to be louder. 

Alrightie, let's get this thing going. It was an empty University of Botswana lecture hall that needed to be filled with the vigorous streams of arguments. And now, came the time for refuttal. 

This time Justice and Mr.Wale could interject as they pleased, they could embarrass you horribly, or could be the catalyst that finally sparks the much needed epiphany required for victory.

The catalysts  were feint... but you could her the rudimentary workings of a lightbulbs in the room. The light switch just needed to come...

Finally, the Public Speaking section that Tawanda knew he needed to redeem himself. And he got the perfect topic. 

What was his principal concern for the future? 

Global warming? Emminent financial disaster?

All of these things were too big  for Tawanda... he knew what he cared about. 

He cared about Physics....

"Ladies and Gentlemen, watching Dexter's Laboratory as a child, and listening to Dexter waking up in the morning and shouting out to the world: "Ahhh, what a fine day for Science!", this is the motto through which I wish to carry throughout my life. You see,  I believe in the fundamentals, and Physics being the most fundamental of all the known sciences"

Tawanda W.T Mulalu had finally found his moment. 

Here comes the impassioned delivery!

***

More English Coursework! Though this time edited! And Deep!

(It is supposed to be a descriptive writing piece about a moment where I felt trapped)

Form 3 Coursework English Essay- Topic 4.

TITLE: Existential Sleeplessness- A simple description.

Dammit.

The sun has fled. It is a cool summer night in which there should be peace, yet in the confines of the mind there is turmoil. The walls enclose, and the top and bottom bunks confine. Still blackness is in the bedroom. The sheets are constantly writhing with the anguish of the body, swirling underneath in confused tiredness. The eyes will not close. The slashing eyebrows do not interlink their tips with one another. They stubbornly stand apart.

The mind, enclosed and confined, brings inescapable questions to be answered by the night.

Double-dammit.

Behind the curtains the stars twinkle like effervescent bubbles, and the creamy swirling arms of the Milky Way galaxy dance. The wind is soft, and the light brushing of leaves is heard. The calmness of this night does not persuade the eyes to close. The eyes decide to watch the stars scintillate in hope. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four sheep- God may put the sheep to sleep. Ape to man, beast to human and erectus to sapiens; then finally, the sleepless body that tumbles restlessly throughout the night.

The mind starts to think: the electric signals pulsate across the nerves.  It gravely whispers hushes of spontaneous Genesis it melodically sings choruses of days against millions of years.  The skin is dark and the limbs are thin. The sheets are like paper, the nightwear is sleek. The bed squeaks and the floor scratches. The body twists. The body turns. The lights outside gather in tiny jubilations, desperate to fend off the binding vacuum of eternity. The time is slow; millions of years or just seven days? The hand touches the opposite arm and feels the bumps and the standing hair. The slight body twitches uncomfortably. Sleep… The room is meant for sleep not thoughts. The earth is meant for what? No, the room is meant for sleep. The eyes do not close. They gaze in sad wonder, at the ever shining and singing, and beautifully brilliant and bright and white, amazing and angelic curios of the night.

Triple-dammit.

Stars fashioned out of clay. A dark twitching body fashioned out of clay. Youthful, exuberant and moist clay fashioned into a functioning doll. The doll is drying. The hands meet the face. A dry pimple of unused soil and a crack is felt. The wall too, has the cracks and chips of time. The lips are parched.  The tongue provides a gentle lick, but it is also dry. Another crack is felt. These can grow and extend until entire structural collapse. The house, the room, the dark twitching body- and its continuing crises of existentialism- fashioned out of clay by the strong hand. The sheets, the grey shining support beams of the bed and its two blue mattresses, the broken and abandoned toys in the corner, the messy stack of youthful fiction by the bed, the dirty brown sock hanging of the edge of a black school bag… All fashioned from swathes of dull, grey clay. Each little mistake on each object is a crack in the primordial clay. The clay boy in the clay house with the clay mind thinks of clay thoughts with few cracks in between.  A pathetic little laugh emanates from the chapped clay lips. A morose sigh emanates from a dry clay throat across the room. It fills the cracks in the walls.

It is dark. My open eyes stare at the sea of black in some sort of curious longing. The thick,

impenetrable black is the fortress of the night. And the thoughts of apes and clay; of existence and stars- wrap their stone hands around my throat. The questions become mockingly loud.

I suffocate indifferently.

625 words. 

LOGGING OFF TWITTER

(YEAH! BOOKS BOTSWANA DEBATE TOURNAMENT 2012! This is the speech that got me 2nd Place! )

 

Staring at a screen at midnight is now a normal occurrence for people of today. Though not of a T.V, but of a laptop. A Windows XP, Vista capable, Windows 7 illegally installed and 'stuck-on-Safe Mode' laptop. I wonder of how the night would have spoken to me a year ago. I slowly forget who I was. I will forget.

Those words on my screen. Are they a final plea?

Only earlier I was simply saying “hi.” Tap-tapping the two letters with indifferent ease. I, the tired touch typist look to elsewhere, dreaming as I work my fingers across the raised body of the keyboard.

“Hey hey,” a response soft, soft as her voice.

I can only remember; I can only forget.

Do you miss me?

Of course you do.

Do I miss you?

It's not even a question.

Then what now?

Should I try again?

Should we try again?

What would your friend say?

And...

What do we miss about each other?

She misses the hugs. That's the first thing she says. But when I get to the point of that I miss not being alone... I realize why we say these things.

A hug is a hug. You can get a hug from anyone. Loneliness? Everyone feels lonely, and everybody lies about it. We miss each other because we're human.

And that is simply so.

She says she misses “the Form One days.”

But do I? With all the new books I read I find myself enriched. Is intelligence worth more than her?

Maybe that's the message I outputted by skipping a grade and leaving her behind. I tell her in response that I miss the free stuff. I mean, chocolate is chocolate. It's not abstract and as bittersweet like stupid words like 'love.'

And then she says it. And they I can't help but be indifferent but touched.

She types:

“I miss saying I love you.”

She logs off.

I am alone.

At the very least, I knew at that moment past midnight, that I'd have something to say here at the Public Speaking Tournament.

I'm logging off Twitter.

Computer Fun Shakespeare Assembly Kumon Music Theory Indian Motswana Library Time With Amrit Amar And Tawanda W.T Mulalu (And a nice pinch of Physics and Philosophy too)!

Amrit-LOL

Tawanda-Stop freaking saying that.

Amrit-Non.

Tawanda- I'm hungry, wanna get some chips at The Bean Bag?

Amrit- Nah, I already ate. And I still have leftovers.

Tawanda and Amrit Laugh- Haw haw haw.

Amrit opens Music Theory Booklet. Tawanda looks at Kumon Bag.

Tawanda- I'm hungry.

Amrit- Then go. I'll take care of the computer.

Tawanda: Whatever.

-

Tawanda- This is the worst freakin' post ever.

Amrit- Did you already publish it?

Tawanda- No but I'm going to.

My Unedited English Coursework!

'A light-hearted look at a day in my school life.' DRAFT

Tawanda W.T Mulalu

“What the … are you doing here?”

This was literally among the first words said to me on my first day. I looked up at him, not exactly knowing what to say. I was the same age as him but I still felt so... small. I felt puny and insignificant. Would I too, in the following year become as tall and and dominating as he? Would Form Three make me grow to magnificent heights and attract girls from all over?

“Umm- I'm ah, in this class now.”

Form 3M. I had misguidedly picked this class due to two major reasons and other smaller but important factors. Reason one consisting of Amrit and Aabhilwe. Both very nice and smart people whom I very much appreciate. Reason two being the words that Rebekah said to me last year that me smile inside: “You should come to Form 2, you're just like us!” Of course this was last year, but it really is the same children in the same year group. The smaller reasons being the others in the class I had already met in Creative Writing and wondering what it might be like to be in the same class as the boys that the girls in Form One (the ones this year and the ones now in Form 2) constantly giggle about.  Another small reasons was thinking I'd have old friends and new friends. All of the reasons have failed in some way or the other. I'll list how.

How My Reasoning Failed Me.

The First Reason

(1)Amrit gets incredibly touched very easily. Therefore we will have some stupid argument about something vaguely scientific and one of us will not talk to each other for hours, and currently: days. I plan on giving him some cookies my sister baked to make him feel better. I did not like typing this.

(2)Aabhilwe died. It sucks incredibly and while she was in hospital I sent her two 80s editions of books in the African Writer's Series ( A Man of The People, Chinua Achebe; Devil On The Cross, by a guy whose full name is despairingly hard to spell so I won't bother and just type 'Ngugi' like all the other non-African people even though I'm not non-African but really can't be bothered to try harder than I need to) and I'm not sure if I'm getting them back. Ever. I think they'll be rather rare in a decade or two...I miss her.

The Second Reason

(1)I came to Form 3, not 2. Also, everything I need to know about French is done in Form 2 which thus explains my current situations of being 'slightly less than average.' As I type this, I am neglecting to finish studying for my French exams which will, what is the slang term for it? Yes, they will 'rape me.'

(2)I don't feel 'just like them.' I feel younger. Though it brings me joy that I am more or less in the upper 10 of best students in class academically despite skipping a grade. Yay!

Concerning The Smaller Reasons

(1)The 'others' are all girls.

(2)I'm the only black guy that doesn't actively hang out with the other black guys; who happen to be the people whom the girls talk about. This was not the case when I was in Form One, and where this may place me in 'the social order' is slightly concerning. Slightly.

(3)Old Friends: Well, I got dumped for not spending time with my ex-girlfriend  because I was in the library all the time pretending to study. I haven't told her that I was pretending to study yet.

(4)New friends: The 'others' are all girls.

So, why did I write: 'Form 3M. I had misguidedly picked this class'? Well the general consensus...

Mr. Dambe: (To Form 3M) “I hope you guys improve this year because last year was...”

Student A: “That class? Why that class?”

Student B: “Really?”

It continues. This information came to me after I had my decision. I didn't research.

Always research. Always.

So, how is a typical day in Form 3M?

“IOAHDFIOJEIOHFEKDLNFJ;RIO;JEAOF;MK,DNFIOJEHLFKDMNFIPOJEMN;VNIOSJGFD;HFJDEFJE;JFKLJDFIOJEKFDJIOPJVEHOIVKDLJFIOEJMVNDIOVHGEOIVKDFLJNIOEJD;LKJCV!!!!!KDJF;EOIJFKEJFIJEJ;LKDJFIODJKFH;EJIOFDLK!!!!!!!!!!!!IJE;LFIDJ;ISLJLEIJJKL;FJD;I!”

I really can't tell you how many decibels that sound could be measured to be, but what I can tell you is that it is now the music of my life, and that I sway to its beat.

It is a song that makes me happy, everyday. I smile as I type this.

I Love You

"Is there any competition between us?"

Library.

Writing while we talk.

Book names at the Psychology and Philosophy section.

Yeah, I'm straight.

Still finding yourself?

Things Fall Apart.

Okay, I'll read it.

My favourite is The Catcher In The Rye.

How can Holden not be a phony?

Puppy dog cheeks.

Starry eyes.

You're a good writer.

Hmm... secluded aren't we?

In my dreams we held hands.

Yes only a dream.

I want to send her some books.

She's okay, just a lump in her stomach.

Is it cancerous?

Fuck. You're always right.

A cell dividing...

Infinity anyone?

I like Mr. Haggar.

I do soccer with him.

Good.

Hospital?

Can I visit?

That far?

Moonshine girl...

Nice picture?

Oh, a poem?

I sent some books...

Yeah!

Ngugi!

I miss you.

Hey, what do you believe in?

Atheist too?

Puppy dog cheeks...

Starry eyes...

Hair short...

In a dream of mine we held hands...

I was reading so much so we could talk.

The Colour Purple?

I have a journal.

I love your poetry.

Please don't die.

A cell dividing dividing...

It stopped.

Aabhilwe Modise.
Aabi.

I never got to tell you that I love you.
I was scared for some reason... Probably 'cause I'm an idiot.

"No you're not."

I was gonna visit.

"Tawanda?"

Puppy dog cheeks...

Starry eyes...

Tears?

I don't believe in God.

Still trying to find myself.

"Hey Aabi."

Join Facebook.

We're still young.

Cancer girl.

Platonic?

Biology.

Logic.

Existentialism.

Identity.

What are you reading right now?

Books.

Literature.

Art.

Creative Writing.

...

Hey.

Aabi?

I never did get to tell you.

And you'll never get to hear this.

Because you know... God not existing and everything.

That makes me feel worse of course.

I really am gonna read Things Fall Apart. 


And The Colour Purple. 


I hope you did get to listen to Pet Sounds...


"Good night my baby...
Sleep tight my baby..."

And I was hoping at some point me you and Simone could sing:

"Columnated ruins-

- Do-hooo-miiii-nooo"

Because of the high notes.

Hey. What a nice smile!

Laughter.

Hey.
Aabi?

I just wanted to say.

That the next time I write to you...

I'll use neater handwriting okay?

Wait.. no...

I mean, that too.

But damnit.

Aabi.

....

I really do.

I do.

I do.

...

I love you.

Thank You Stalker

AWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!

Guys somebody loves me!

It is no other than my stalker Natasha Mbwana! (Not the math Natasha, the DRAMA Natasha!)

Let me just clarify; my very nice friend Natasha mentioned me on her very awesome blog.
And she even put some of her favourite posts on her blog (without my permission but I do love the way she formatted them) .

So dear stalker; I would like to thank you very much and would like to let you know that you have been added to L3PB's special post list...

Just watch this space...

COMING SOON, TO A BLOG NEAR YOU, THE MOST EPIC POST OF THE YEAR:

I really love MS Paint... It is just too awesome...

P.S
On the actual post; Natasha states that I am her self-proclaimed stalker. THIS IS LIES AND NONSENSE. THAT CHICK HAS BEEN FOLLOWING/WATCHING ME SINCE DAY ONE, thank you very much.

"Oh and Natasha, I haven't forgotten!"

This is me delivering on a promise... 4 months later. Here you go!

I have a music project that I should be doing right now...but I am not doing it right now because I'm busy writing something for my music teacher's daughter. She also happens to be one of the few people who make me looked stupid in primary school. I remember the first time she came into class in Std 4... Leigh had already tried to befriend her and I was amazed that she started her oral speaking topic even though she was new, and even though our teacher told her she really didn't have to. It was this strong work ethic that startled me time and time again... and of course she skipped Std 7, allowing me to attain the highest grade in both classes rather happily.

I eventually caught up to her when I skipped to Form 3, and we were both in the same grade again though not the same class. She is still, like her mother a music virtuoso and also a very smiley happy person.

But what is the greatest thing about my music teacher's daughter?

She reads my blog!

And actually asks about it and talks to me about it... Which brings me great joy.

FINALLY MY RIVAL BOWING DOWN TO ME! ASKING MY QUESTIONS ABOUT MY WORK MY ART! BWAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHA!

Oh, guess I got carried away...

The freshest memory I have right now is thank to her, I managed to finally draw the stupid square-based pyramid in math using MS Logo. We had to use Trigonometry, Typing Skills, Pythagoras, General Intelligence... Eish... it sucked especially because of Mr.Laverick's fantastically funny though offensively self-esteem killing comments. Anyways, she really got irritated upon finding problems drawing it, though she pushed through it, and even stopped to help me through it. The only reason she didn't finish faster was because she bothered helping me.

You rarely see that kind of kindness with super intelligent focused people.

She , positive is able to find some kind of happiness in helping others and being focused enough to provide for herself.

Thank you Natasha. Because Geometry sucks.

Also, my music project... yes I have to get that done soon....

Maybe maths does bring people closer together...hahah nah... Trig is hell.

Trigonometry.

ANGLE/SIDE

A memory.

Distant and warm. And sweet.

I can see the green of a small but stretched out pavilion. And overlooking the pavilion is a field of yellow-green but filled with the occasional stabbing,sticky, yellow, triangular thorn. This is where the juniors of Broadhurst Primary School in Botswana enjoy the break time. With a few brisk minutes chewing on sandwiches, crunching Simba potato chips, and slurping away at juiceboxes. It is a time of joy and childhood.

Today, or yesteryear, when that memory was today and so clear and vivid as it happened right there and then, is Valentine's Day. Oh, but what is love to a mere child of grade 2? But Tawanda Mulalu, the hopeless romantic he was then, and would grow up to be was unphased by his rejection by a girl in reception. Whom uttered a disappointing "eeew!" once Tawanda told her he liked her. It was awkward age and time and moment, and is frequently brought up still.

But the poor little child in his little clothes had his little heart within and refused to yield to the little world his little soul. He walked up to the new girl. So beautifully dark was her hair and her eyes. Her soft young cheekbones glistened whenever she smiled, but today she smiled not. This was when Tawanda approached and sat next to her friend, but also the one he 'liked,' as that was the word used. 'Like' and all of its other forms invited giggling and blushing from boys and girls alike. 

Like.

Yes he liked her. He did. He did. And he would profess his liking without fail! Oh he would do a little bounce in a little victory and in a little shuffle in his little uniform he would leave with a little smile and little gleam in his little eyes with a little happiness! He would succeed! He would indeed.

So they too, the new girl he liked so dearly and the boy. Tawanda Mulalu and the pretty girl of new.

She wore the typical blue-white checkered dress. And it flowed and sparked on her body. How, Tawanda did not know, or need to know. And they sat, as friends do. She still, unsmiling did not mind his presence, as friends don't mind each other. Tawanda gathered his courage and spoke with the spirit of a poor soul imbued with the wound of Cupid's dreaded and loved arrow. He gathered his courage.

"Hey Mariam? Can I ask you something? Will- Will you be my Valentine." 

He asked so sweetly and softly, burdened with the risk of his endeavor. The sugar on his tongue gave his words the feel of candy.

And she, still stoic and now rather confused, but also not particularly surprised or interested asked apathetically, unknowingly hurting the poor youthful soul an inexplicable, unexpected question to match his.

"What's a Valentine?"

And the world of this poor, poor seven year old boy folded into two like paper. And his little heart sagged with the heaviness of lead, dragging his small body into the pits of post-toddler despair.

He simply said, with his hurt hidden well;

"Its okay. Nevermind."

That was that. The end.

The boy, Tawanda would later meet another girl in another school, but then he kept his 'like' hidden and never revealed 'till her returned to Broadhurst and met Fifi. Which actually worked out due to the efforts of a then ten-year old Geneva. But oh, it would end, and that poor fool Tawanda would return to the girl who did not know what a Valentine was.

SINE.

And he failed in horrible misery. Poor lost soul Tawanda , the romantic dreamer with gentleman ideals of a now dead society would find peace only in his work. As he would continue in the adventures of primary school Science.

"WHAT A FINE DAY FOR SCIENCE!" he would exclaim with the vigour and urgency of Dexter of Dexter's Laboratory. He was lost in love but found in science. 

But a ray of light in the form of a younger Tlhalefo. The girl he once knew from the days of the other girl in the other school. Tlhalefo used to give him that rather cruel stare. But times changed and four years after the cruel stares he would chase her up the stairs. And then chase her again and again and again until finally... Oh but that is another story for another day friends. A story rather long and rather bittersweet.

COSINE.

For now Tawanda falls in and out of pathetic teenage hormonal induced 'love.'

Yes, friends for LOVE is the new word. The giggles and blushes still come with this word as with 'like.'

But LOVE is shallow just as it is deep. It is happy as it is sad. It has meaning and is meaningless.

Tawanda, shining dreamer, surprising grade-skipper has left his life behind for life anew!

And he has shed a year off his childhood too!

Oh friends but what he has left behind is an even sadder story.

Friends. Beautiful friends with glossy faces. They are, they were, they are wonderful.

He misses them dearly.

But one stands clearer than the others.

She was shorter than most. But had a fancy smile and glistening hair and amber skin...

She was his girl and he was her girl. He remembers that day at the art-room so clearly now.

And the smiles in the science room.

And playing with her hair in THAT scene in drama.

If he could, he would cry. But the poor boy cannot feel. Or maybe he feels too much? No. Far too little. Failing to give even his friend Amar advice with a certain issue with a certain variable. What is the value of 'x?'

Of course he would not cry. For who is he? A boy. What does he know of love? A mere boy. He has not yet felt any romantic love... for he is a boy. Or in small quantities worthless of tears? Either way...he's a dry well that never had any water in the first place. Oh well... *writer sniggers*

TANGENT.

I remember. 

I remember everything.

The art room. The science room. And of course THAT scene in drama.

But of course, it always reminds me of that final paragraph of The Great Gatsby.


"It eluded us then, but that’s no matter — tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther.... And one fine morning —"

But there is no fine morning for me. At least not for now.

You seemed to understand when I told you at the end of last term that things would "only get worse." I refused to do anything about it. You did. End of story.

Yet...

No.

And of course that picture of you in my head...

No.

And maybe the picture of me in your head...

No.

And I...

No.
And you...
NO.


*Sigh* I think its time I did my maths. I got a Trigonometry test on Monday.

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

ANGLE/SIDE

The Landing.

Distant lights.

* 

Distant dreams.

*

Shadowy night.

*

The flight.

*

Slow descent.

*

To Earth, return.

*

Voice from above.

* 

A helm of captaincy.

*

Further, faster descent.

*

Galaxy of faux stars below.

*

The turning turbines.

*

The moon, solitary but seen.

*

Gliding headlights.

*

Against the strips of shadow.

*

Blinking orange, the tower.

*

A pathway of stars to land upon.

*

Landing, a rolling roaring crash.

*

Arrival, I am home.

I'm going off.

Once again because of events I cannot control I'll be going on a two week hiatus, how about checking out some of my posts you haven't read? Sounds good? Great.

Or:

www.economist.com

www.cracked.com

One's is for humour, the other one is for serious world news.; also I think my computer is sending out deadly radiation towards me...help?

Boredom.

My life continues boringly in borish borishness.

Currently Reading:

To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

Fun Home - Alison Bechedel 

The Orange Burns?

All of the sudden... I'm getting better at poetry. Well I guess all of those bad 'Bad Poetry' posts are helping out a bit...that's is great! Here's my latest work, hey don't cry. I'm getting there.

The Burning Orange

The orange tastes my skin

The fleshy delight lit into the night

The orange tastes my kin

The sparks bright in burning sight

The flicker and cracks whip my body

And the cold is now warm

The whispers of attacks slip upon me

My clothing ragged and torn

We hang from the trees dark as we are

The pale shadows chuckle and grin

Our eyes retreat into our skulls deep and far

The orange feasts upon my skin

Pungent smell of roast

Women unfelt by black hands

Innocent, we burn

The Continuing Story Of The Boy Who Skipped A Grade

My life has been the subject of much misery lately, though the misery has worn off and blossomed in a stream of light that shines in all its fancy in sheer... well whatever I couldn't think of any good metaphors unlike my work in 'Syllogisms' which I actually really need to get done with... But otherwise I suspect this post will pe revamped because the title is too awesome to be left in a simple post like this.

Me Trying to Write I

Syllogisms (Working title, a work in progress)

A brilliant whirling zephyr of young females burs out of the rickety door, scattering the seeds and leaves with each gust of feet pounding onto the ground in turbulent motion. The jilting storm swirls in cyclonic rushes, showing the full destructive nature of it's fierce winds. The feisty breeze shows little indication of calm, if any at all. The storm ensues, traveling all around the buildings, soon tearing apart the innocent pupils with each hard breeze of gossip and each strong wind of heightened emotion. No one is safe. The boys watch in futility. The storm cannot be stopped once set in motion. They may only watch timidly as the ongoing zephyr traverse the once scenic and peaceful walkways of the learning institution. The young males, strangely, are more silent than the gender counterparts. The rough tough reprimands has succeeded in silencing their sneers and volatile vicious violence. It seems that the lions of the jungles that are the wild fields of soccer and rugby and the tough habitat of the basketball courts have been caged. Their ferocious primal roars have been worn down into meek, measly screams comparable to that of punitive mice, and their once strong gestures of muscular strength are nothing but low shoulders and heads being dropped straight to the ground in shame. All with their asses in the air.

The boys eyes glittered with restrained, held back tears, and watered at the prospect of being detained in fear. They crawl, now released from their cage. Their golden mane has faded into a dirty brown and slowly molts away. Each strands fall and dissipates in the tall thatch like grass of the rough and rugged floor of hot savannah that is the classroom. Their sharp fangs and acute canines, once sharpened so crisp and distinct are now shattered; their empty gums barely able cut through the air they breathe. The trail of wilted mane and broken teeth is soon blown away by the wind of passing feet and laughter. The news of the boys' defeat has spread with the same gusts that once blew on their shoulders and gave them encouragement. Only one boy remains in the classroom free of shame. Only he remains in the classroom. His bags are heavy, his arms are small. His mane is short, his teeth are smooth. His eyes are bleek , his legs thin.

He gives a gesture of thanks to the teacher, and walks out into the dreary sun. It's bright misery shines upon him. The melancholic rays tingle his skin. He looks up expecting a smile. He receive no such wretchedness, and continues to walk, for the day holds more for him than the annoyances of the sun.

Weekend

*sigh*

It Gets Worse.

I sit in the classroom hopelessly lost and alone. No one can help me. No one wants too.
I think of all the teachers who will speak to me. All words that I will not understand.
And as I look around looking at my new classmates. For a moment I replace their faces with my old class. This offers a brief respire but later leads to bitter regret. I can't communicate with either parties. In rejecting all that has preceded my future, I have found that my future rejects me. My pride breaks and shatters.

Everyone else knows what they're doing. Everyone understands. Everyone but me.
To hold my hand up is suicide. Answering questions is impossible because I am encapsulated by fear. Fear of stigmatization and fear of being wrong. Having the wrong answer. Fear of being the ignorant fool I know myself to be. I displace the water from the pool of sorrow as I choke. My hands slap the water in a desperate attempt to flee, yet it only worsens the situation. I'm drowning.

*
Why it gets worse:

1. I suck at French
2. The Debating trip is gone, no one else is going because it's too late
3. Talking to my old friends feels like talking to strangers
4. Talking to new friends takes time
5. My writing is lacking, and so is my math.

Whatever, it all gets better in the end anyways.

The New Year Post

Happy New Year!

New friends! (I'm skipping a grade)

New grade! (I'm skipping a grade)

MORE MISERABLE WORK. (I'm skipping a grade)

I would just like to thank everyone who actually read this! You've boosted my petty self-esteem and even managed to fend off some existentialism crises by allowing me to think I'm important!

Normal posts should continue by Friday, though I'm not going to post as frequently ( my internet JUST came back, and I'm skipping a grade.)

P.S I still miss you Haadiya.