IF GOD SPOKE

Vol.2
EPIC OF A MAD POET.

SIMMONS-MARSHALL A.
LAME BOTSHELOENG

1
 INTRODUCTION
The epic (which is unequivocally a poetic memoir – “of a Mad Poet”) takes form as an extension of
what has already come to pass in the wheel that is the life of the persona and those around. As
much as If God Spoke Vol. 2 is a subjective narration, it remains socially-relatable. Lo, the
protagonist has been made to open up and flow the same way the River Congo stretches itself
into the River Nile (and not vice-versa). The subjects are interpreted by way of practical facts
that could not be abridged into fiction even in verse. The contents of this second volume of If
God Spoke have been documented rather than invented. Even during poetic dialogue, a parable
has been meant to appeal to the mind of the reader to either comprehend the point or to marvel
over it. Throughout the book, the author substantiates that when legitimacy is questioned it
should persist throughout the interrogations and examination, without deterioration in
originality nor value. The epic preserves 1Quality as a quality, 2originality, 3an unpolluted essence
and 3 inevitable truth (itself) that could never be bent nor erased – only witnessed, persecuted,
and disturbed. The script entails of four (4) books that are:
BOOK 1: The One That Loved a Prostitute
BOOK 2: Hope of a Thief
BOOK 3: Lies of the Honest
BOOK 4: Response to the Mad Poet

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FOREWORD

3
 BOOK 1:
THE ONE THAT LOVED A
PROSTITUTE

4
PROLOGUE

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 1
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LOVE AND WITCHCRAFT

I f he is lively, smiley and – so to say – glowing, what could prompt the courage in anybody
to rise up and offend those facts? The facts can only be offended if they are just raw facts
(untaught, innocent, overflowing in purity and undiluted awareness). It is subsequently
when the facts have been compiled as scrolls, manuscripts to be eaten, digested and lived as truth
that such galactic data cannot be affronted effectively. In that state the truth in man walks
upright, unoffended but aware; not willing to compromise (anymore) but willing to listen because
we were nearly killed in our fake love and that is not a story but a scar. In order for the truth in
man to triumph, he serves himself with the task of un-shelving petite traumas and abuses,
scanning them and realising how harmfully titanic they could be and how they could harmfully
reform his soul - narrowing the path a dying soul, to hell. For you, child, to proceed victoriously
you shall have to forgive the child in the mirror that stares back at you when you look. Some
people do not look; they flee from the sight of what would pursue them even in the poetics that
they recite to themselves in their sleep. People’s minds scream at them even when they are asleep.
It is the nightmare(s) of what has come to pass – visions of more strangeness. A perfected seed
springs up from the soils of the firm sands or land, referring to the womb of a Mother. It is that
seed that had once grown to notice the manner in which his surroundings seemed to reside inside
a huge but small manuscript, recited by a dictator who could also be a lovely father to a child
native to the household such as the Sprout of Life – Offspring of David.

“Watery grapes” had been prepared at a table where the well-costumed persons were to appear
and dramatize the Last Supper. Bread was also brought. A priest is the one prostates to unlimited
truth, even in solitude. His respect for boundaries and territorial justice would not be considered
by the bishops of the world and the business-minded politicians that join in at the table of life (or
that of death, really). A child that has grown to become a young brown man is a reflection of the
local mountains that mark the earth – clearly visible from outside the earth, above. He has read
from his own letters and admitted the facts despite the viral libraries that had been constructed
to confuse, contain and deceive even “The Elect.” “You, in poetry, could be the elect,” the person is
reminded as he stands under a tree, aware of his surroundings. “But you should consider the election
even outside the poem, because it is real. Real life.” At the table, the real-life table, the wine was poured,
the glasses were passed and bread was split. As if to intrude into a garden, a subtle creature is
the one that had tiptoed into the hall, lying past the gatekeepers (because the creature knows
how to appear pretty), before rushing upstairs to grab a glass at the table, unashamed. The being
blinds the guardian lords, pours a sweet substance one glass and pass it to the Head of the Desk.
This person’s eyes glitter like crystals placed under moonlight. She slides into a chair besides the
indecisive young lord, smiles her way into the man’s chest until he is mentally dizzy, frozen in a
dusty little town. He would think that he is absolutely in love, opening his throat for the melon-
coloured wine (little desire) as handed to him by the “creature”. He gulps and swallows away his
self-respect, common sense and the practical ancient hygiene. His true love was shown to him as

6
being away serving her duties dressed in a white lab coat, opening up her heart and learning the
sciences in order to be useful as someone of royal lineage. However, he, being almost intoxicated
was surrounded by serpents which were descendants of the pain that bothers both the human
and the reptile. Through that line of events, the young lord skips over traps made out of sadism
and raw sentimentalities due to what nobody can remove from a human being: his senses, gifts
and the DNA that had made him a possible relative to truth. Therefore, if he was poisoned and
lagged behind, that had been meant, in that world, to depict the difference between love and
witchcraft.

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 2
NAÏVE

W e had identified you perfectly at that Last Supper, long before you could know it. We
were able to see how you had, with your pedophile masters, plotted over floors as if
you were playing chess. You agreed on rewards to be paid up soon when the aims
would be achieved. Your aims were the aims of a very disgusting agenda, against my soul. We
then realised just how we had been veiled and of how you had walked in like a model or like a
female assassin, appearing with bottled poison and an extra glass of purple alcoholic beverage (if
not just the urine of one devil). What is that you wanted to plant in me? How come it worked?
Did you think I was going to remain veiled for the whole hour?
I am a warrior. I have fought off more than just the likes of you and your poisons, yet I remain
lively. Isn’t that lovely? Isn’t that love? Are you not too naïve to comprehend?
Forsaken, my love, is the one that realizes after it is already too late, learning what they had
already known and faced. They are discomforted by their attempts to suppress God even in His
children.
On the other hand, why didn’t you tell me you were being raped? Why didn’t you open up as you
were being comforted at my table? Why didn’t you tell me about the one that had sent you? Now
that I know, that is both sad and heavy, but liberating. I am liberated because it has now been
demonstrated how naïve we can be as a species – all of us. We are all naïve until we stop existing
inside a poem (a box) because there is life outside ego, hurt, greed, and the curses that shapes
your nights…
Hopefully the author isn’t too annoyed or exhausted. He writes. The letter from an old but
renewed table would be signed, printed and delivered directly to the Poisonous Female Spy that
had survived a war, learned to repent and to stick to their own “family”, throwing away an
emblem and a badge.

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 3
THE APOLOGY
<< Should we apologize? >>

W hile visiting a nearby bush to sit in silence, to reunite himself and perhaps even write
a few lines in his sky, the smiley youth would realize just how 3 hours could swiftly
pass by if you just sat as if on top of an ocean. He was perhaps the one to rise up and
walk the waters, the same way he had crossed the tormented bush, wary of traps and venomous
things while also minding the originality of the true image and the rigidity of the purpose of the
life-long dialogue. He had had to be obedient to the orders of time, so that he was not too ahead
nor too delayed to the point of being stabbed to death by 2 thugs in a bush to later be feasted
upon by reptiles or to be discovered by the gloved Red Cross and the police. No, he had motioned
towards sanctuary, smiling back into the heart of the enemy of life, appearing victorious. The
point had never been to appear as or to seem to be victorious, but to triumph in truth; to afford
personal space mentally, emotionally and materially (as the earth provides) even though the
wilderness still smells of dragons and beasts. Hear the trumpets of Babylonia. If we have already
referred to Babylon as a Mother of Harlots where fornication (pornay) is but like tea in England,
then even a corrupt House of Commons would admit before their monarchy that the Harlot is
indeed a harlot. Should we apologize to the adulterous deceiver just to make them feel mighty
and godly? No way. Any day at all, I could easily rewrite (for the last time) to the deceiver to
reaffirm that:
You are a dangerous creature. Your art is as disgraceful as your aims to rebuild Sodom and Gomorrah,
leading innocent persons to the pit that is more abominable than AIDS, no longer innocent. These things
you could have performed at your cave and not here where you have long invaded and bothered the likes of
my children. So, you need us to live? It is true that you shall judge yourself into Chaos before BOOM! But
we understand that every generation and or era (civilization) has to end, that is why my appearance is
lawfully spooky to you, your seed and your spooky setups, harlot!

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 4
TO FORGE LOVE

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 5
TO REAR AND TO MILK

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 6
THEIR OWN SUN

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 7
A BLEEDING CHEST - CUT BY JEZEBEL

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 8
UPRIGHT

I send a grinning faith, a smiley face and a soft wave, a poem to the gentlemen at the
backbenches. They are the ones that observed, took notes and murmured quietly. They were
the link, the snitches and the agents of the CIA. They served even higher chairs in the key
offices where lies and facts were discoursed, considered, judged, rearranged and either favoured
or sentenced to a cross (when and if there is approval by the emperor). The Lamb did not perish,
so gratitude is expressed and re-documented. The sharp blades of the peculiar knives and the
flammable sulphur that had been poured into one’s inner chest were the regular seasons of hell
that had to be overcome, and especially that lying serpent – Jezebel. Lightly, I remind the dark-
open-fields of myself: I have a tangible beard, a fulfilled height and a daily smile. Over there are
those brown open fields where I was once shadowed by equipped shadows and reptiles that had
crept out from under the earth. Look as the clouds fly over the tails of the skies, just over my
mother’s house. Lightning is not a coincidence because I had been enraged and that fury had
touched above where, nonetheless, my lake of peace could not be disturbed.

I fought fiercely for justice and for facts. Through the airs I defended my breath, heart and mind
– a mind that had repelled many a spell. I had melted under a tree in the cold darkness for I had
been hit with an arrow laced in venom. A certain Roman soldier had, so they say, went on to open
the side of my chest with a sword, bloodily attempting to reach into my heart’s very core… I was
meant for my time. The water goes beyond any form of death. Every battle that was waged
against the Child had been extended just to purchase time and to display to the foreseen traitors
that they could not win. A re-baptism would soon cut the mental rope from the neck of a young
man who had been condemned to hang. “As they attempt to hang you, survive the rope without rotting
away, my son. They will come at you with guns, magic, intoxicants, musical noises, sex and even money…”
observes an elder with a waking staff - a thick, brown stick, as he crosses over a lone bridge at
midnight. It is that man Gabriel. Our elders have become some of the stars as seen from earth by
night. Different weapons have been used against us but the ones that have to raise patriotic flags
over nuclear Armageddon (we) have had to survive… one way or the other. While samurais cut
each other down in my vicinity in a pool of blood, I have remained upright.

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 9
THE PARABLE OF THE ARCHITECT

T
he Prologue Parable from the future:
The one without a prologue would be as a regime without a Coat of Arms -
unembellished. After regimes are set up, there always is an inevitable need to protect
or establish a sense of Oath. The major asset(s) of the Revered Bird (the government
regime) that is being administered at a desk where nests must be knitted and securely
hung on trees is more than just Currency and Silver – it is Our Souls. The regime had entrusted
its currency and silver on the minds and the trained hands of those who knew economic
management because they had been taught - about financial worlds, markets under Capitalism as
well as social operation. By the mountain at the edge of the capital city of the country (the
Kalahari Desert Republic – which is the New Mount Zion) is the Presidential Palace area where
aircrafts pass over, to and fro. There - over there where government structures interlace between
private property and government presence – are the trade arenas preoccupied by bankers, private
merchants, and service field marshals. At the Office of the President building there had once been
a gentleman who had been known as The Architect. He had served not only as a presider over
all, a supervisor, a teacher, a provider, a clerical administrator but also as a helper to those who
seek (truth-thirsty researchers) and a scribe, at the timely age of 40. Although he had had to
develop his sense of timeliness and punctuality (respect to schedules) he still enjoyed a freedom
outside discipline where he could unleash skill based upon simple intelligence and wit in order to
craft beautiful things. He was Head of State.
***

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 BOOK 2:
HOPE OF A THIEF

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 10
A HOUSE WITH EVIL SPIRITS

T he Deputy Warden had thrown me the keys and smutted* his lips before turning round
1800 and departing. Up the cement stairs, the man went. “I hope you have a good night,
Mr,” his voice had echoed following his exit. That had been one Deputy Warden that
had mastered very well the art of practically imitating the real Warden – another devil, a larger
devil in a darker kingdom – a kingdom in the middle of a black city. Lame had just caught the
keys that had been thrown at him by the Deputy Warden before the man had strolled away down
the hall then up the stairs looking more curious than thoughtful. He certainly takes his orders very
well, noted Lame as he turned the key inside a large, battered aluminium lock. He had pushed
hard against the thick wooden door as it required strength to force it open. He stepped into the
little room. There was a single wooden bed; a thin brown mattress thrown across the planks, just
besides a study desk made of bricks and cement. Lame took in the smell of the room, sneezed at
it, and observed a spider crawl off the mattress and up the stained yellow walls. His body had
begun to feel itchy. He sat on top of the little bed, seeming to be thoughtful and too lazy to
remember even the face of his God (but soon appreciates the verve of dialogue with the Most
High). He is not entirely religious, however he is aware of himself, his previous battles,
misfortunes and Possibility – the possibility of hope and progress. His body would continue to
itch and he would step outside for a smoke. He coughs. His lungs seem a bit uncomfortable. To
himself he admits: I really have got to deal off with this habit, before stepping back into the little
dark cell, leaving the door open for a while, at least for some air to dilute the bitterness of the
previous occupant’s perfumes and the spoors of old sweat. While placing himself along the
mattresses where he had flung his woolly blanket, he would later kick the door shut… he thought
he had heard some approaching footsteps. Perhaps it’s the neighbours, Lame had deliberated, or
perhaps it’s whatever it could be in this terrible territory where I have no choice but to camp for many more
months to come. Just today, I discovered a whole leg of a fly [insect] in my food – the food that I had
purchased by a shop just outside Campus where dogs scrap for bones. There, the smoke covered the
atmospheres with the scent of burning oils… Lame had then sat at the desk with a pen and a wistful
thought of his notebook that lay somewhere among the booklets that lay all over the concrete
desk. He skipped the idea of a shower due to the unsettling brownness that he had observed on
the walls of the bathrooms that had been described as white. Earlier that day, in the morning
before he had boarded a train to hell, Lame had swam naked at a distant hidden blue lake. The
birds had celebrated his energy; he had responded to the song and to the sun with a bright smile,
washing away the exhaustion from the previous season before dressing up in blue. He had then
picked up a leather bag containing his papers, a pen, a blanket and a shirt, along with his aging
dreams. The train soon screeched its way into a dusty, abandoned station in the desert, smelling
of salt and grease, and Lame had jumped in, hoping to be on time…
That evening he sat in the dark room. He tapped on the light switch to be glad that the bulb was
operational. So, he sat under the light, behind the desk and listened to the heavy breaths of the
previous occupant of the room (still lingering in the ethers). Whoever that man had been had
unquestionably had female guests; they had interacted in whatever manner they had preferred

17
and the walls still carried those memories of music, sweat, cigarette smoke, prayers, irritation,
frustration and raw violence. The yellow walls appeared to have a new layer of paint although it
was obviously some years old; the brownish-red stains that were distinctly smeared against
several spots on the wall were of blood either of beast or man. The noises of elated and mad
voices from outside the hostel intruded into his space. First, it was the Swati and Venda girls
yelling to the smell of marijuana, then the throaty voices of the beer-sipping lads that had
probably or most definitely been the cause of the Mademoiselles’ passage… and a male’s weary
voice howled: “Breezy! Breezy!”
Lame would later pull his lined paper-pamphlet, imprison his pen within his fingers’ grasp and
scrawl with the black ink across a new page. He wrote:

O, God, even in this world, I still require a proper home.

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 11
A CAGE

I was locked inside a cage. It was a cage that looked like one that poachers would prefer for
capturing wild beasts. Look, there is a trade that circles around the imprisonment of certain
species. The World Order makes some of them to appear as criminals. The purity of their
inner selves and the hygiene that follows the chaos in their visions is what disrupts the air around
them. They find themselves amongst criminals and demonic wrecks that are ready to do as the
devil orders them, and they wonder “how did I get here?” or even say “damn, we are here again.”
The forces that we dealt with over 2000 years ago did not entirely give up, we see; they ran away
although some were captured. The ones that are still running around through time have always
ensured to redraw the plans and to attack again frequently, to cause chaos while also setting up
kingdoms that deceive the whole world. They attack again in order to attack again another day.
Back to the cage… inside the cage where I had been captured - a cage that had been set up of
metal and little space for air - just a few triangular holes for some air to pass through, it had been
as if I was a dog inside that cage. But I have not been able to bark because (as stipulated in Volume
1) I am not a dog, the same way that People of the Sun are not dogs. When they colonize and tame
you, you shall be treated like a dog and your little precious characterises will perhaps turn you
into a pet that they can play with and call “cute”. They had been milking our heritage because
our land was rich and milky but when our minds were steady and focused on facts (although
everything has been polluted extremely) we did focus on the lonely facts that made sure that
chaos fell whenever we came through where things were misaligned from “divinity”. Our line of
heritage is always commanding us to go and do our own thing, so I walked out of the cage as an
etheric being, leaving the body, the fleshly box behind although it is precious because it carries
the DNA and RNA of our elders – the blood. I looked at the body from outside the cage and asked
out loud although by way of the mind: “what about this body?” The body was tired, red eyed,
accused, restless, salty as a lake that used to boil, threatened by a current World Order that had
converted youth into elderly so everyone was dying while the bodies were left to walk around
the earth in the form of mental zombies whose souls could still be recaptured if the world had
doctors. There were a few doctors around, but would they be able to heal this body? What was
the illness? The illness was the hypocrisy that had been forced into our rhythm; the illness was
the ugly paintings in motion that the devil kept hanging around the walls over our heads. The
body looks lonely. Perhaps over time solitude had manifested itself into a desert without water
because some shepherds were indeed sent unto a thirsty flock. I have had to recuperate this body.
I have had to calculate time because everyone was reminding me just how left behind I was. I had
to dilute my blood with an essence of my soul trying to remember the alchemy that I was barely
taught but could recall. We have had to put away the shame and the pain that was pointed at us
because our reality had become as naked as the desert to the surrounding desert. In this little
moment I am to manage to access a central lake to wash my hands and to bathe again. So, the
old Monk in his full sense without being disrupted, without been cut by scissors and politics of
outside minds who wanted to involve us in their narratives because of their old decisions and
choices that were haunting them in the present day - pests, stealing birds… Now I have to walk

19
the garden again – it has been referred to as a form of a reset where the living one dwells in time
in order to seize to build again what had been disturbed by lies, dirt and tlhakatlhakano le
tlhakatlhanyo ya batho ba.

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 12
BROKE DAYS

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 13
FROM A FAMILY

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 14
NO THIEF

PART 1: CHRONICLE OF A CROOK

W
hich questions keep coming up from your conscience? Are we as clean as
yesterday although yesterday had her own debts and missed calls? Are we not
cowards for running away from the real world? I shall always include myself
as, comrade, it has been quite a journey on earth. It has been a matter of
responsibility (entailing of the clear tasks that face us or that we are faced with)
as well as timeliness. It has been a curvy trip for someone with a troubled heart. He had been so
restless, guilty from previous crime(s). He has admitted to the imposing legal system that during
those times they would no longer await a god to descend into the land to judge them for their
sins; they were judged by their very crimes. It was as if he looked at himself or just at some parts
of himself, observing that he was what he was as some sort of punishment for some of his muddy
tracks or those in his ancestry. He had been faced with the task of beating his disagreeable self
like metal, shaping an agreeable work of metal art – a shiny one that curvatures to instructions
and cuts sharply as a doubled edged sword. But he seemed to be an old wreck.
“O leferefere! Loleme le laago le tletse maaka fela. Ke gore sengwe le sengwe se se tswang mo molomong
wa gago ke maaka fela! O tlaa bolawa ke batho… ebile fa ke e swa, tlabo ke bolailwe ke wena. O
maaka… boferefere jwa gago…fa ngwaga o o ka fela ke tshela tlabo e le ka luck…go siame!”
– The words of a Mother over the cell phone - 26. 05. 2024
***
That person is simply paranoid by his so-called “prophetic nature” and the songs that the universe
and its nearest stars sing in unison saying that he is The One, the Son. He is not at ease due to
the fore-sent attacks, thirsts and perilous hormones. He has to establish balance so that he does
not end up taking all that is not his while impoverishing the household because he often flees
from truth and he trips over his heart because he cannot be reduced to a thief and a cheap liar
that keeps disappearing into the shadows with a pen and a notebook while household accounts
prove that oil had been swindled and handed to the streets by a dirty bastard that refuses to grow
up although he has become as old as time. He is guilty and dirty. He should, once and for all, man
up, get himself clean and become honest with everyone as well as to himself so that he does not
end up converting into a bat-looking humanoid monster that jumped from roof to roof – a street
dog that worships melancholy in a neighbourhood that stinks of cigarette-smoke. He should
reclaim his traditional sense of hygiene and astonish everyone. He inscribes:
Oh, El Elyon, may my scales balance when cheap crimes are being weighed, so that I enter as a clean man,
at least close to the Messiah who is the protagonist, the way and the light to the house. Good endings are
indeed pleasing, but earnestly, we should be bathed under that sacred gold as soon as possible so that our
inner cleanliness is reflected on the outside while we are still here, and so that we are not chased away
from home as stray dogs and criminal-extra-terrestrial devils!

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 ***
PART 2: CHRONICLE TO A LAMB
Order had been established, habitually, hasn’t it? Look at you lately. That image is not funny.
You should instate stability while also radiating strength and the true light because what if you
are Mmoloki, the Lamb? I know that you prefer the dark solitude of your darkness; you have
placed the moon in front of your sun to hide under an eclipse. That is what your old soul prefers,
but you must awaken to the reality of time and the foresights that lag behind because of your
slow-motioning identity crises. You confirm and then you re-confirm, and then tomorrow again
(for almost 60 833,333333333 years now).
“Jaanong nnete e a lwelwa, o tshwanetse go ipabalela ee, mme o supe gore o mang ka lorato, bopelokgale
le bontle.”
– The words of a Guardian Angel, eternally.
Look, time is in your hands; you are favoured. Can you not feel the Pure Love? Affection is
radiated from past the clouds, raining some drops of fulfilment from another world of divine
minds, and just for you, my child. I have said: what if you are the Lamb? Rise from your self-
persecution. Punctuate your research, the learning era of reminiscence is past. You are learned,
but are you perfected? Didn’t we perfect you and send you all the way here? You have been
healed, so answer to your own questions based on facts (and only facts) because you can see
everything. You have broken out of mental cages. Be well, be swift and be smooth for your Loved
Ones watch with hearts that are rather sensitive, truly longing for you in progress and in beauty.
There is no one else that understands what I say more than you, my Lamb. It is you, O, the
shepherd to my sheep, the one that is no thief.

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 15
ACADEMIA

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 16
TOWARDS LAW

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 17
SWINDLING THE DEVIL

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 18
BATHE US IN GOLD

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CROOKED TIMES

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JUSTICE OF THE GODS

30
 21
A COMMUNITY

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 BOOK 3:
LIES OF THE HONEST

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THE TRUE LIES

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FACTS & FACTOLOGY

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 24
DURING ANARCHY: WE SURVIVE

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COMPETENCE

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 BOOK 4:
RESPONSE TO THE MAD
POET

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 26
IF GOD SPOKE IN THE 21ST CENTURY
<< But everyone else is trying to save themselves. >>

O h, I had said that I would like to secure a field of reasonable size, just east of my home
village. I was born there, grew up there and learned to fight there (and elsewhere). It
would really be a breath of fresh air to get to stare at the village from aside, sipping tea
and appreciating how to share my peace. Peace is a concept that keeps getting postponed or
sabotaged, and by peace I refer to the serenity that launches itself with true liberation. In the
verge of being at ease during a late evening – the brief but vintage hours for drafting ideas of
liberty – I had stated that I would love to raise a school in-between two villages of a similar
dialect (tongue). I would draw giant water taps, joining the pipes underground towards the
pyramids that the lads shall build around my head. There would be law, you see? There would
be boys’ choirs because men would be Music itself, graduating into old masters who can handle
their own diamonds, thrones and books. He who would be in authority, that old professor of
professors, Lord of Lords and his lords of mmala-wa-sebilo would, with ease, access wisdom and
dignity in order to abolish false cultures including the false religious set-ups that have divided a
People (a continent) and teaching them how to honour imperial invasion and blue-eyed gods. We
would re-grow our crops in their varieties; we would share the sacred seeds and un-poison
(purify) our fertilisers and our minds because they create a conducive airspace for rainfall and a
return of ancient, extinct bird species. We would hold foreign tribes [the Goyim: nations, Gentiles,
heathens] at the gates. We would expose the spies; search the priests; reject imports of books;
engage the Reptilians with swords as we free our lands of neo-colonialism and Satanism.

The kings that fulfil the standards of legitimacy and fact-based royalty (our blood) could reign
again, while also building arks in our conversations for survival during the floods that would
accompany the Second Coming. We could walk the earth again. We could return in our glory
and might. The stumbling block is that everyone else is trying to save themselves, perhaps from
drowning… Men load up guns and tightly close their gates. They ignore the cry of the neighbour
and the cousin; they add venom in the beverage of the mate, these Reptilians… and as politicians
embezzle the taxes in bags, the justice system becomes a snake that is only going to fold into that
valley of fire where the ground is made up of rocks of red coal that yell with heat. Nonetheless,
everything that is positive could be achieved, it is only that everyone else is trying to save
themselves (and perhaps their loved ones but with limits as Love becomes a tale of ancient
folklore). We could build that school, but our very own communities still aim sharp arrows at
us and open fire. I and we have been holding in many wounds as a youth. I have been taking in
the hurt of all generations and paying for the pains of existence through my little heart. My mind
is a mirror of everything so the truth is reflected and so all systems that are based on lies launch
mud and rocks towards the glass of truth. Universes do not lie, unless the Creator is reversing
glories. Hopefully a generation or someone shall successfully pull down or burn off the veil in
order to save both themselves (144, 000) and everything else that is redeemable for lately

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everyone is only looking to save themselves. That communicates a tone of a divided society that
is just a corrupt mess. That is the place where I am only expected to earn my currencies, find an
apartment to hide my seeds, remain quiet while becoming fat, waiting for retirement and for an
African national team to win a FIFA World Cup or worse: waiting for a white Jesus to come
flying to…

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 27
WE HAVE SEEN YOU

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EVERYONE AND ANYONE
<< Were they really Harlots? >>

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 29
SO, YOU THINK YOU ARE THE MESSIAH?

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SWORDS

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YAHUWA

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 32
MY DEAR OLD MELANCHOLY

TALKING ABOUT THE CHILD – THE WITNESS:

I was there when he was born. I had carried him as a baby. He had an older brother – 4 years
older than he. His older brother I had adored; carried him in my arms, watching how he had
enjoyed milk. Delight and hope had been shown in his eyes. They were the brothers. The
younger one moves through many gates (practically trespassing) intentionally or per influence.
You would see him in his old, tattered clothes - dirty and dusty. The family over there had had to
settle where they could, willingly. Their home had been left for exile. It was not mind control, it
was clearly the reality of existence where decisions were being made (or had already been made).
I, the Mad Poet, have met the child by the old bridge. I have handed him the pen (only for this
moment) so that he may speak for himself. This is his story that affects all of us, even those of us
that do not care (or pretend not to). As he has the pen, the chapter of literature is to become a
recitation by way of his voice and throughout everything that he pushes through his bruised
chest. His name is Clayport (the Witness). His mother was Elizabeth of No England. There was
a place in Old Nubia that had been named No England - a little city (if not just a town or a rural
village that could be a city to anyone that opened their minds to whatever a city could be). No
England is the land that I had walked through while in Old Nubia to meet the boy and give to
him the pen.
***
THE CHILD – THE WITNESS:
I, Clayport of Old Nubia in No England (the Witness), had grown up seeing a tall brown young
man, sporadically. I tell you, he was different from everyone else that I had coexisted with.
Somehow he managed to give me a pen. He bared knowledge. He showed the fact that he had
been there when I was born in the year 2010 A.D, and before that. He revealed that he knew my
story and could interpret it more efficiently than most people in that surrounding. It is either
they knew about the young man’s force or they were heavily blinded by the conspiracies that the
world had been making against him. But one way or the other, it is clear that they did knew him
to the depths (even though they didn’t know that they knew). He who motions like the Lamb
gave me a pen and now I write about a story of tears, love, reunion, dreams, hope and death.
Last night my brother arrived from the city where he had been taken to read for his GCSE. He
had long been taken by a well-off distant relative in order to study for his Junior Certificate which
was durated three years, plus two more years of senior school. Now he arrives in December
following the examinations that had certainly been rough and tough. After completing, tired and
sorrowful in his heart, he had carried his bags. He had been spit out (by the well-off distant
relative) in a more disconcerting manner than the manner in which the whale had spit out Jonah
before Nineveh. We, as children, could never be certain about the filth that had corrupted
Nineveh enough to concern the Creator to the point where He had to speak to Jonah concerning
the situation. I hope that my four-years-older-than-me brother is inspired by our struggle and

45
that his decisions and endeavours shall be positive for the benefit of us all at our household. Ours
is a borrowed house as we long left our home after the demise of Grandmother - Mma-Adam-
Eve. Those had been controversial times. We carried agony, pain and our bags through it all.
We would be labelled “sorcerers”, “destitute” and “a hopeless ménage.”
However, even during these times as we run out of sugar and clothes we would be inspired by
the possibility of what might come for my mother as well as for the siblings that I have been bred
with. I remain Clayport at the age of 13; I am whatever I am throughout this misery and the
random free joy that comes when and whereby we laugh together as children, chasing each other
around as if we were free butterflies. Still, I had grown up seeing a tall, brown young man,
sporadically. He was different from everyone else that had breathed around us, and he has given
me a pen – a voice worth a page or three.
***
I, Clayport the Witness, was born in July of the year 2010 A.D in No England, the area of Old
Nubia. It is a little city (if not just a dusty town or a rural village that could still be a city to
anyone that opened their minds to whatever a city could be). The trees are short and thin because
of the climate – it is a semi-desert. You can see the desert in our eyes and over our faces that we
are a people of the desert. It is the same wilderness that had been mentioned in Jeso Keresete’s
Book of Revelation (Chapter 12, verse 6) as revealed to John Bar-Zebedee for him to reveal about
the things that must shortly come to pass. My people are not categorically knowledgeable about
the sea and deeper rivers. Europeans had come to No England riding on cattle-pulled chariots
and settled among us. The “white people” owned large farms, dams and large herds of livestock,
boreholes, tools and machines like guns and motor vehicles which had been rare and foreign
during those times. The 1800s (I have learned) had passed by swiftly. The world had been
colonized by another world. There were technologies – electric bulbs coming into light; news of
electricity and FM radio. The world had been changing. Our ancestors were somewhere in this
land – here – before they drifted into a corner and settled down and mixed in with other people
whom they could relate well with in simulation and in reality. Relations would always be stable
in pretence but awkward and dangerous in truth. Grandmother Mma-Adam-Eve had been born
to a woman that had initially been thought to be barren. Many people, apparently, had believed
that she would never conceive, that old woman, our great grandmother. The husband to our
great grandmother, Mr Peloyamodimo, whose name we carry as our maiden surname, had, while
they still resided at the old town next to No England (still in the district of Old Nubia) been awed
to witness our great grandmother give birth to nine children. The fourth of those children would
be our grandmother, Mma-Adam-Eve, who would get engaged and then married to an oddly
light-skinned man - Mr Slowburn. Mr Johnny Slowburn has been described to us (for we were
not yet born when he still walked the earth) as yellow in complexion (of mixed European descent).
It is said that when you first met him you would think he was a Boer that had sailed from
Scotland. That man Johnny had supposedly planted the seedlings to my grandmother’s
household, although rumours suggested otherwise. My mother, Elizabeth of No England, had
been a part of that household, as firstborn. Mama Elizabeth would give birth to my brother
during the mid-2000s (in 2007) and I would see the earth in the year 2010. There were regular
quarrels in the aforementioned household as they would fight over sugar and missing money.
My uncle Tyson, while in his mid-twenties, would be tormented by stories of rape, multiple

46
assault cases and his own insecurities that would turn him into a devil for he was the one that
was heedless - a tenega thata ebile a le dikgoka. As the sun shone on some years after the passing of
Grandmother Mma-Adam-Eve who had been the big tree (“setlhare se setona sa mokoba”) that our
family had existed under, we faced the trauma that had long been waiting for us. There had
always been conflicts with the external extended family. Those were stories of witchcraft or
sorcery and slavery – domestic and mental. Nobody can enjoy being groomed into a slave, can
they? We would soon receive food hand-outs, being mocked by the sins that possibly still ran in
our bloodline. It was shameful; it was hard. My mother had strolled her way to the several offices
where she could be allowed in. A Lamb in the form of a tall young man had passed by as an
illumination lamp. He was a concerned mini-sun. Under that sunshine Mother would apply for a
job and then, by the grace of the Almighty, was able to receive a Letter of Employment – as a
cook so that she could feed us while ensuring that we lived life awaiting the next morning and
another day. Life was a wheel. I, the Witness, obviously do not enjoy feeling as if the wheel of
life has run over me while I had been sprawled on the road unconscious. The accidents of life
have taught us of the different zones of this existence where terror and trauma run through us.
We are tamed into creatures that face the darkness that has made us to become even more aware
of the fact that we were our own enemies. If my people were solely their own enemies, they were
certainly going to destroy themselves and others. If they had not already destroyed themselves
then the apocalypse was yet. And, if the devastating wars had already occurred then we, the new
children, were the offspring of those filthy struggles; we were the results of death! We puke as
we receive headaches and wounded feet because of the ghosts that tame us even in bed. If that
young man (the Lamb), the one that had handed me this pen by the bridge, whom we comprehend
not but still classify or try to wound is more than just a gifted monk, then we have indeed lived
during the era of the Messiah.

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 EPILOGUE
AFTER ALL

THE PAST

O ver an air that had felt rather complex, during the hours of the absence of the sun in the
open skies (the moon circle), a young man has made contact with himself on a mirror. The
image of his deeply melanated skin (with feet like burnt bronze) keeps him awake to the
sound of his solitude in the world of today, so he does not feel alone. His voice
accompanies him, and he speaks:
“In Junior School the days were long, but I was indeed fertilized by my own inner fuel. We fed
on white maize rice, drank the soup and starred at our notebooks with barren hearts. I had
complained that it had all felt tedious, while asking if at all there wasn’t more to life than what
we were living. I wondered if it would ever be simple as I failed the mathematics, studied alone
at the bushes behind the gardens, and carolled the lonely songs from a foreseeable future that
Satan would continue to disturb.”

THE PRESENT
A man in his mid-20s stands on a balcony of a red-bricked flat. He stands in silence holding a
lemon and a pen. The evening echoes the distant sounds of a busier metropolitan just metres
away, but this particular man is not preoccupied at all except in his heart that is occupied by the
mature melodies concerning the poetry of his youth as well as the so-called New Order of things,
the demands of the present era and the inevitable chapters that are yet to be unwrapped. There,
away in caves, still lay parliaments and temples. There were some old villains to part ways with
over the previous clashes that we had won. Some of the Rebellious Seed had survived based on
forgiveness or mercy, supreme justice and a belief in Redemption and Second Chances. The tastes
the bitter lemon and pens down goals concerning his career objectives, his distant love and other
living manifestos. He expresses gratitude over hope and life itself. The 25-year old concludes:
“A defeat to the dark shadows that had followed us in the first place had headed us to Round 2 –
a second round of battle and feud the same way the First World War of 1914 to 1918 A.D had
led to World War II which was a bitterer clash that had threatened the depths and the shells of
the planet itself. We are, today, prepared to celebrate this soul (the Returned Breath), our purity,
and our gifts; how simple after all.”

THE END.

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