Three Stories. Three Poems. Three Pictures.

Short and sweet. 

(Hey, I'm on Hello Poetry now too. It's like Facebook but just for poetry..so check me out!  

 http://hellopoetry.com/tawandamulalu/

Also check out my friend Mzwandile's Hello Poetry profile. Really dark and deep literature: http://hellopoetry.com/mzwandile-poncana/ )

Anyhow, here we go; short and sweet.

***

I. 

A STUDENT'S THOUGHTS, LATE AT NIGHT.


Tired.

I had been able to close my eyes for a bit and even went as far as letting the blanket of black envelop me. Strangely, it had held me like no one didn't. In short, I was alone. But this time, content with being so: I could finally enjoy the voice inside my head.

And then tomorrow, once a concept that didn't exist, existed once again. Then my chest began to hurt. Exam sadness was setting in. It was thus the time to write insincere essays and meaningless equations. All for a certificate that will say I am qualified for something. For what, I do not know. All I know that I was once able to smile...not too long ago.

I said goodbye to my blanket of black and said hello to my gentle heart attack. And afterwards I logged onto more emptiness on a screen: dreams and seens. I didn't, I don't, understand anything yet. All I know is that I am suddenly not a child anymore.

LIGHTBULB.

Lightbulb; the moths flutter 

and beat themselves to death against an idea.

A thought, vivid like glass, bright like tungsten-

glows.

I am reaching out to mind again,

my wings burned and burdened...Wait.

I have lost track of my metaphors again...

But then again, like the moths,

I have lost track of many things-

except for the unknown light in front of me.

II.

EDUCATION.

“Dear [insert name of relevant exam board here],

I’m writing to tell you that being a student is not my life.  My mind has nothing to do with you. Your grades do not define me. So you’ll have to excuse me while I go read a book that I want to read and write an essay that I want to write.”

The smiling English teacher reads the essay to the class. Its author, an exceptional student, has received full marks for it.

This student will win a competitive scholarship…and will go to a prestigious university.

She will study politics. 

MONOLOGUE.

Stage lights go on and off,

every morning and every night.

Somewhere in some poet's bedroom window,

Somewhere in some lonely theater hall; she

        rises

and begins to speak her heart, her soul. The poet's

pen is the stage light which has glowed,written; she 

                  sets

having long stopped caring about anything else

as she was instructed to do so.

The applause is sad and silent, beautiful and brilliant.

And so is the dark... so is the dark.

III.

DREAMERS.

They essentially cheated on each other, with each other.

Day after day and night after night: Him and Her flirted in their bed sheets while whispering secrets. Each kiss acknowledged the existence of whomever they thought they were with; their mouths rarely parted in order to hide their uncertainties.

Their sad truth was revealed in a moment of affection. She said, ‘I love how you’re never scared of anything’ and he said, in post-coital reciprocity, ‘I love how you always put others first.’

Both knew that they were neither fearless nor self-sacrificing. Both knew that they were only dreamers.

THE ADOLESCENT POET.

As you go about your business,

      at the back of the school rugby field,

you search her body with your hands:

      you are looking for metaphors.

You instead find other, much nicer things.

***

Let me take some space to monologue a bit:

I've stopped writing specifically about my life on this blog (...until now?), and the blog has mostly become a space to share my attempts at literature ('short and sweet' because I'm lazy) with people. I don't know what to say about this. On one hand it sort of makes me happy because I guess it means I'm less solipsistic and self-concerned and self-obsessed now and that's always a good thing. On on the other hand, it is always painful to realize that you're not as special or important as you would've liked to be. 

I've always, implicitly, thought that about myself. Not in a grand 'I'm smarter than all of you' way...but in the sense that before I died I was hoping to have a Wikipedia article about me up. 

Isn't that such a pathetic life ambition? My greatest goal is to want a Wikipedia article about me? All with a cool-looking black and white picture of me looking intensely into the distance? What distance? What would I be looking at? Why do I even want to be doing that? Why black and white?

Nevermind that. But good news is that I've started reading again... after a series of addictions that include Cracked.com and Youtube my attention span has been almost completely destroyed. This is of course, as usual, along with my heart. So I'm using reading to run away into a place that only I can be, and also to see if I can try and surviving in reality by myself. I don't want to feel the need to be with other people but I do. I really don't know what to do about that... 

Loneliness sucks. But also quite suckish is the frightening realization of the continuity of life. It's easy to gain a sense of futility in one's romantic future once you're under the assumption the every girl (or boy) one meets is merely a link in a possibly never-ending chain of 'adventures.' So- why bother if it ends and starts the same?

Because it feels good.

Though at the same time we meet certain links that we believe are truly special, that we want to have forever. But at the same time we know that this isn't true because they'll be leaving to another continent at the end of the month.

Whoops.

You see how long I haven't written about my personal life for? That sounds like the plot of a stupid teenage love story movie type of thing and not my reality. Does it matter either way? Yes it does, not it doesn't. 

I'm over a lot of it. And by 'it,' I mean everything and anything. Maybe that's why I'm reading again. I don't know. I don't know if I want to be here or somewhere else. Thus, the difficult choice of what to read today presents itself...fiction or non-fiction? To be a scientist or to be a poet? Stuff like that.

Though I'm assuming I'll be okay. I'm always okay.

Only problem is I've always wanted to be more than 'just okay.'

I've always wanted...more.

This attempt at profundity is the original cover image for this blog. It's from when I was still fourteen... I'm seventeen now.

P.S The official release date for 'First Adventures In Adolescent Heartbreak' is January 14, 2015. Do check it out. Furthermore, they'll be a special blog post called 'Poems for a Somebody' at the end of the month. Again, do check it out. 

Atoms and Origami.

Welcome dear readers, to yet another edition of 'IGCSE English Coursework as a Substitute for Actual Blog Posts!' I'll hope you forgive me this again for not posting... I've been so horribly busy with not being busy. Then again, this statement only means anything if there's anybody reading it... or writing it? Is There Anybody Out There? 

Also, Check the blog soon for a review of 'Tseleng,' an amazing show that recently played at the Maitisong Theatre in Botswana. 

ATOMS AND ORIGAMI.

 .

“I like that we’re both made of atoms.

It means we have so much in common…

So much that we think

that we’re actually different.

It’s wonderful.”

Wonderful.

These were his infinite last words which stretched the propagation of the sound waves in the air, back and forth, forever and ever… until the ceaseless longitudinal vibrations creased out into nothing-  black and never ending silence- dead and printed words on white paper. That was all that was left of him: his face, his skin, his feelings, his heart, his blood, his mouth, his sound- all but dead and printed words on white paper.

I was beginning to think that he had planned this all out- for me to be there. To be there not with pen and paper, to be there not with a laptop- but to be there with an old school typing machine with all the click-click clanging noises. Not only that, but to think his dying words just happened to be that poetic and that meaningful… no. It could only mean that he had planned this all out. For some odd reason he knew he was going to die today, old and grey, and he wanted me to type out the final chapter of his life on an anachronism.

It would have been easier to record it all on my phone and send it as an audio message, or better yet, just get him to make the damned phone call. But no, that wasn't how my father wanted to say goodbye to my mother. It had to be layered, and it had to be on paper. And it had now needed an envelope. And I had now needed to leave the modern hospital to buy one. The hospital with its very modern and discontinuous, thin beep of a heart-rate monitor… It’s not that it was actually discontinuous: he was dead now and had gasped out the last page of his breath. It was only that my father loved contradictions. It would be far more fitting to describe the unbeating of his quiet heart as discontinuous. He was after all, discontinued.

Wonderful.

"Every single person in the Universe is their own unique arrangement of atoms..."

The photons of the sun flew violently and proudly, ignoring whatever barrier the windows pretended to provide, and the molecules in the air around us jumped heartily in response. In short, said my mother, it was a hot day. She was mirthless as she used her plastic teaspoon to gently swirl her coffee. She had turned it into a tiny black whirlpool of transferred epithet- the coffee was so saturated with sugar that it refused to be anything but latently bittersweet. One could only tell this by the curl of her lips once she had actually sipped the thing. She hadn't burnt her tongue, she just wasn't satisfied.

Bittersweet. Coffee on a hot day. A healthy old girl in a hospital. My father loves…loved contradictions. Though my mother, being my mother, had only just arrived and was thus in a position to bother with me questions I didn't want to answer. I was only happy that I didn't have to answer any questions about typewriters- I had left that in my father’s room. I had, however, managed to neatly stuff the remnants of my father into my back pocket.  Mother hadn't noticed- she had been too busy trying to find meaning in my eyes.

“I’m not too late am I?” she asked.

It was just then that an open window let in a breeze- another hearty stream of air molecules. I sighed and released a little draft of my own.

“Depends on how you define late.” I said.

My mother smiled for a second, and then took another, unsatisfying sip of her coffee.

“I don’t.” she replied.

“Neither do I.”

 It was only something to say. I still needed to go and find an envelope.

Luckily her phone rang and she gleefully began to flirt with god-knows-which-man-now as I left the waiting room. I trekked to the post office across the burning road. Each footstep actually felt hot- each lifting and stepping movement caused the constituent particles of my rubber soles to vibrate, and heat conducted from asphalt to shoe. Such was the heat on a cancerous day, completely resistant to insulation, spreading at will.

When I returned I hadn't even bothered asking my mother who had called her- it really didn’t matter. My mother and father had long been past being actually married anymore. This is not to say that they weren’t married, it is only to say that the continuation of that marriage existed only in titles on funeral cards, greetings at social gatherings, the front of my report card and in my father’s poetry… It took me some time to notice that my mother was sitting down with no signs of post-flirtation glee. The heat of her coffee had dissipated to the environment… if it had any further decrease in volume since I had left; it was probably due only to evaporation rather than actual drinking.

I came to the conclusion that someone other than myself had told my mother of my father’s current non-existence. I then took my time to pull what was left of him out of my back pocket, the dead and printed words on white paper, and neatly stuffed it in into the envelope I had just bought… Father’s dying wish. I licked the seal and did not recoil from the bitter taste as I thought I would.  I was instead intrigued by its disturbingly inappropriate after-taste, sweet and sharp, and carefully folded the envelope to a soft and gentle close.

Of course my father’s funeral casket had to be a paper masterpiece. Of course each letter of ink was filled with a countless amount of tinier than tiny black atoms. Of course my father was and had been a complex and layered little origami swan, as my mother was and is the little cute girl who had folded and unfolded him. Of course she didn't quite know what to do with him once the novelty wore off.

And of course I’ll hand over the envelope with my father’s infinite, poetic and meaningful last words to a mother who will most likely never understand them. Never understand him. All this and nothing, and all at once and never… I too, had once loved contradictions.

Wonderful.

"...and we are free to do almost anything we like with our own little bundles of God."

***

I would like to thank my cousin, Chatiwa, for being the principal inspiration behind the quote in the captions of the pictures. :D

Some Poems For a Weekend.

(Ah...what can I say today? 

I remember talking to my unhappy boarding buddie today before I left school. The sky was fast darkening, and long before the threat of rain dwindled down to only mild existential angst. It was a beautiful and sad late afternoon, and when my mom finally arrived I didn't quite wish to leave. My boarding buddie hastily removed the shirt I lent her to save her skin from the mosquitoes: we both preferred it if my mom did not see this and draw out suspicious conclusions.

 Before that I had walked another friend to a combi stop not too far away... and could her the men in their little bus-taxis speeding on; wielding loud and cantankerous car horns... We are talking about 'commitment issues', and heartbreak: this is my fault. She took a picture of a poem from an anthology I was carrying. ('Solitude' by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.)  As I watched her go I was reminded of the ghosts that I had told my best friend about, the same ghosts I read about in 'This Side of Paradise' and the same ghosts I feared would frighten me the moment I recalled any word I have written for anyone, anywhere: 

"[and you won't forget any time soon, you will see her ghost, hear her name whisper even during equations, even as you sleep or cannot sleep because you see her eyes, you holding her spectre...asking yourself why and what vision you are seeing... fluttering around like some ghastly butterfly looking for a long dead flower that isn't you... that's how you feel.] "

You have to admit that this particular piece of shameless self-promotion is actually relevant to what was being said...anyhow, 'First Adventures In Adolescent Heartbreak' is coming soon to a solipsistic blog near you. 

I had messaged him on Facebook about the ghosts  (that exact same message actually) to help him get over his break-up.  He thinks that I can give him advice since I have 'experience' in such matters, so I thought it might be a good idea to tell him the blatant and painful truth about all. After all, I am so obviously and shamefully 'experienced'. Unsurprisingly, his response was an insinuation that I should go fuck myself... I cannot blame him, obviously.  And even earlier, before the walking my friend to the combi stop I talked to another girl in my Form who happens to have the same French tutor I have. We sat there at Thornhill Primary School, munching on french fries as I told her silly things about how I feel and shit. But that doesn't matter. 

Even before that I called my girlfriend on my French friend's phone as my English teacher has confiscated mine for a week, though that's a story for another day. (Regular readers, if I have any, might be confused about WHO this 'girlfriend' is (she is NOT a robot, program, sex doll, book, etc)  especially considering all the fuss I make about everything on this blog. To save yourself the trouble it is worth considering the chronological order of  the blog posts 'My Bed Past Midnight; You Are Asleep' and 'Second Love.'). 

It was interesting: hearing her whisper her through the phone...parental fear is a transcendental quality of life. No racial or cultural boundaries can deny a child of parental suspicion and punishment. When will I see her again? I think.  She has gone so abruptly, so paranoid thoughts start seeping in... 

Like I could possibly resist using this picture again. Sorry Tao. XD

I'm talking to her now as I'm writing all of this. I miss her of course. Yet now I seem to be quite emotionally stunted, having put all my emotional energy into all of this writing in the first place. I'm really sorry for that. I feel like I can be such a horrible boyfriend at times... I wish I could just tell you these things rather than put them up here. Why don't I? I probably should. I should. I will.
...After I'm done posting this blog post. 

***

Damn. You're asleep. 

But even before this I had-
Fuck it!... This is supposed to be a post about poetry!

So here we go. )

SOME POEMS FOR A WEEKEND.
Tawanda W.T Mulalu [1997-]

_____________________________

Happy one month darling.
______________________

CLASSROOMS.

When eyes meet, lifetimes flicker

into brief birth, in seconds.

They then disappear, switched off

fading from glow as they look away.

And those small daydreams,

memories and ghosts;

diffuse off, dead.

Like momentary winds or clouds

shadowing the sunlight, sweetly.

...or the times I should have

talked to you but didn't.

Instead we had then looked away.

***

I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL TODAY.
(or even wake up tomorrow)

When did life become so mundane;

so lifeless, soulless, uninteresting,

painful.

Was it when God became unreal?

Or when I had started to base everything

around  axioms and atoms

               neurons and synapses

               numbers and words

               pen and paper

               keyboards and page breaks

               dead poets and their self-written eulogies...

then       Wolfram and Wikipedia

               Newton and Einstein

               Socrates and Camus

               Hemingway and Fitzgerald

               prose and verse

               e^(i*pi) and F=ma

               me and her

               me and you

               me and us

               me and I...
                            

    Or of cloudless skies dawdling in black nothing

with savage stars, drops of white glistening ink,

crudely flicked into existence by old used paintbrushes

    Onto a large and empty canvas, once colourless and dull,
from a tin of primordial paint in stock since creation

from youthful minds too bored to find something else to do

but observe and listen
    to his own little brush strokes. 

***

TIME.

A wall in some school. Hidden in shadow.

T T. Crossed out. T A. Crossed out. T H. (rubbed out with tears and rewritten again...Crossed out.)

R T.

So now we're all waiting, for the next cross tomorrow.

***

SENTIENCE.

The dog was unaware of the beauty of roses, as it ripped them to petals, blossoming shreds.

Existence is such: a wonderful thing. 

***

MORNING ON A WEEKEND.

He is woken up, rather savagely by his dear, sweet mother. Church. Exasperated, and desperate the poor child registers the coming torture of the Gospel and to himself he sighs: "Surely even you mother, tire of the Lord sometimes." Still he wakes from the bed like an undead creature. Still he gets into the bathtub as would he his grave. Still he shakes his head at the holy bred preacher. Still he lets his fun be undone as he lets the brave, Congregation sway him, side to side, in the rhythm of above. What do they see? Or rather what do they need to see? All the poor child sees is a beautiful sky. And that's all he needs to see to smile.

***

ONE MONTH.

I am trying to think of beautiful words.

         Trying.

And I can't have used up these feelings already
        I can't have.

I still have far more to say...

...

Is my mouth dry? 

I kiss you.

Will the words come out now?

…

Is my heart empty?

I miss you.

Will the words come out now?

…

'Darling I love you,

do you know that this is true?

That I stick to you,

as a toddler gets the flu?'

...

                     Am I sick?

These can't be the words!

Those can't be the words!

So please…

let me try that again…

…

'Dear lover,

It is hard to be

poignant, poetic, romantic;

this early and this soon.

Perhaps it's better

if I just buy you some chocolate;

before shops close- too soon.’

...

And so

I'll just leave it at that:

I know I adore you so much.

Even though

I cannot say it

particularly well at all.

______________

Fin.

______________

Oh yes. Paint DOES make for artistic masterpieces.

Anyhow, see ya around everybody.

NB: 

- For non-African readers a 'combi' is a minibus used for public transport.

- In the poem 'Time' those aren't my tears. Just saying.

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'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?

Isn't This Where You Started?

"Smile..."

(this is another non-canon blog post, ignore it)


Well isn't it? Maybe I should start doing other things and actually complete the plethora of stories I set out to write....
So here are my plans-

Blog post:
Continuation of Normal Blog Post starting from next week.
'Wilted Rose'
'The Loved and Forgotten Parts 4-10 (I promise the next ones will actually be good)'
'Butterflies and Flowers'
'Flowers and Butterflies'
'Why I'll Be Dead'
'There's this Girl' (A post for Neelo)
'Fifi and Tao'
'An Interview with T.Blogger'
'School Trip'
'School Trip Again'
'School Trip Again Again'
'Online Games'
'Comics Showcase'
'My Art'
'The Sandman'
'Tawanda's Guide To The Galaxy'
'Ice' (Supernatural story suggested by Sedia)

Oh and you're probably not even going to get or see half of these.
However expect a blog post about my first day of school (again) and , then another 'Loved and Forgotten'
And then....
The continuation as normal.
Hoorah! Excelsior!
And Enthusiasm.

"Smile..."

And it continues...

Cmon Tawanda...

Okay, so it appears that I haven't posted in like two weeks, I plan on fixing that. Just not now.
See you in a while....

Screw.

Screw it, I've got writer's block again...

Oh God...(1)

ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Writer's block....

Thanks For Coming To The Show.

He held the white tablets in his hand and he squeezed tight. His pants were down, he had fallen off the toilet seat in a desperate attempt to get some toilet paper...

"How pathetic." he grumbled as he downed the pills with a sip of tap water. He groaned.

He looked at the label on the packed, he went down to the ingredients- 'Paracetamol' it read. He didn't bother reading the amount of grams. It didn't matter, he just needed some in his system.

He led himself out of the bathroom and collapsed into a tired heap on his bed. He picked up his phone and looked at the message. He sighed, he knew what he had to do. His birthday was tomorrow, he needed to tell her before the day came. It was time to change into his future.

He cried, it was his decision but he cried.

He wouldn't see his friends again, his family again.

He wouldn't see himself again.

After January it would be the end.

He allowed himself one more thought, one more monologue before he would sleep.

He whispered solemnly, but contently:

"Love you all, thanks for coming to the show. Sorry it's time to go. I need to do it for the greater good of humanity, I need to go do things, discover more, save anyone and everyone. It's because I love you all that I'm going to never see you again. At least you'll have The Scientist, so long Player, so long."

He looked sadly at his stuffed animals and wiped his tears.

"Paul, John... Goodnight."

Unknown Emotion...

Okay so I was in bad patch last year (yes... a tiny bit DID have to do with this girl I really liked;it's not my ex so I'm not telling you who it was but it was mostly me) so I wrote this crap poem (only later to discover that Mr. Haggar has been marking BEFORE I came to M.a.P...damn.


My blood spills, a river of broken promises
My head hurts like a thousand goodbyes
My heart beats as slowly as my emotions build
I reach for contentment, yet I cannot find it
I feel the world around me and note my flawed Science
I look at death and it reminds me:
The only thing I always wanted was not knowledge
Was not life
Was not love
But resolve
Resolve to keep searching for new questions
So that I could then use knowledge as an answer
And then define my answers with love
So I stand up and smile
At least let's go away for a while
I feel yellow
And I walk away, content


THIS IS THE EDITED VERSION. PROMISE TO POST SOMETHING GOOD TOMORROW.