Buddy scamtho and other poems

Mboneni Ike Muila

Buddy scamtho

Eers ek moet mense groet ka motswako

Scamtho wise..,we molo

                         abusheni halo

                         mangwanani

                         sanibonani thovhela

                         ri ya losha

                         hasalaam alaikum

                         malaikum salaam

                         welele ebukhosini bakhiwa

                         holasharphoezit moja

luister nou mjojo grend grend moja hierso tweede

matakadza mbilu; ndi nwana

matakadza mbilu ; ndi nwana

chu chu baby ; ndi nwana

chu chu baby ; ndi nwana

buddy scamtho

first and fore most I accept and thank you

for your invitation

with my most humble beginnings

buddy scamtho jam

nwana mme smoko

kasi prent shosholoza style

khoma switiya nwana mmani

spikiri hammer chisel foloza mkokoteli

dish dash pozi jinda warm ginsa laphasite

skokkende werk liyashisa emsawawa cowsin

i am into creative writing as a poet artist performer

my narrative oral mix is in eleven

languages spoken in south Africa

byenbye trapped in one poem

the so-called tsotsitaal isicamtho lingo alive...,

en kicking sense of humour in you en me

mixing of languages into a witty lingo

a language of identity

a language of an ordinary person in the street

a language of unity in diversity

matakadza mbilu ; ndi nwana

matakadza mbilu ; ndi nwana

chu chu baby ; ndi nwana

talk talk baby ; ndi nwana

cry cry baby ; ndi nwana

oh ; oh ; baby ; ndi nwana

matakadza mbilu ndi nwana

matakadza mbilu ndi nwana

a song matakadza mbilu is a folk song by

the malende dance culture which says what brings

happiness to the heart is a child

in my case

the ultimate child is

isicamtho
  

— —

Wounded lion of jutas

i am a wounded lion of jutas

no longer in possession

of his own personal en private belongings

i am a wounded mourning toothless lion of jutas

I am a wounded lion of jutas

In house number one lion of jutas en family

home place cabin open close den

because of mrs no nurse en her siblings

my personal en private belongings remain

locked up in a suitcase

cause once or twice many a times

my personal en private belongings were erased

stolen disappeared en destroyed

in my own home place open en close den

grrr..,humnhumn i am enough wena mavuma

zonke baas jan leburu le suleng

i have had enough of all these betrayals...,as for

the three window frames in my life span spin on

en a window frame battlers as they appear still

i am willing en able to repair them still

for the almighty owner heaven above

as for mrs no nurse en her siblings

should honour their home place cabin meter readings

electricity rates waste removal nogal weer as from now

on wayawaya or take her siblings en belongings

then vacate my own home place cabin open en close den

without any skelem chopper damage

to my personal en private belongings

yours relentless lion of jutas

— —

Stomach ulcer complications: Isabella Motadinyane (1963-2003)

on the day i received sad news of her sudden death in a

clinic/hospital orange farm i was shattered i felt stomach

butterflies running all over the show then i felt something

rising towards my throat and there i was speechless and

howling like a dog without its bone. isabella motadinyane

was born on the 17th feb. 1963 mofolo central and passed

away suffering from a death of speech in a hospital/clinic

orange farm on the 19th jan. 2003. she wrote a poem that

gave birth to botsotso publishers and botsotso poetry

performers as botsotso jesters.

i met isabella while a stage manager in a workshopped

play about life in theatre…pimville of the early sixties…

gangsterism, music and social politics of that time even the

tsotsitaal lingo used at that particular times under the title

skom short for skomplaas that is emzini…at home…during

tea time and lunch time we would be discussing creative

writing that is poetry and state drama performance

complementing each other she became my soulmate and

told me to throw away my walking stick which i used to

keep my body upright while struggling with the force of

gravity since my permanent brain fracture blow i suffered

in 91 jeppe street jozi, i wrote her a poem…my better

half…

she also told me of her sad story. she told me she won’t

live long because of her stomach ulcer complication. she

told me her mother took her to a family planning clinic for

sterile and birth control while she was a young school kid

for fear of unwanted pregnancy she told me her tubes got

blocked and that led to her life threatening situation…

stomach sore pains which would finally take her life.

to me she was such a strong sister soldier and fi ghter who

does not easily bow down to minor pains then she would

curl up in bed next to me giving me squeaky sound of

ehchu…farting and laughing hysterical when i ask her why

was that she would tell me the pain is gone out with the

fart we would both laugh hysterical…while she continues

to fart i would hold her kiss her and then ask her what

she would love to drink before and after meal as a wash

down she would tell me she is tired of drinking white water

that is milk sugar and hot water as her one and only tea

she would love to drink beer and be merry waya waya to

entertain the mass of poetry lovers with a beer in a hand

drinking like nobody’s business and with our own creative

writing coming home with raving reviews.

i could now remember vividly she wrote sink a shaft

before a beer bottle while we were rehearsing poetry and

spontaneously collectively creating and recreating folk

songs that would go along with the poetry in grahamstown

poetry festival performance…since 1993 to 98 after an

evening performance we would go to the nearest wimpy

bar or favourite pub to rewind chanting poetry brainstorming

and discussing possible channels for our creative

eff ort and going to sleep after hours sure no matter how

much drunk we could be that we wake up on time to take

a shower or a warm bath.during our collective effort she

would come up with melody and then we would sit down

jointly work on the lyrics and finally write down the folk

songs for example vulani song, bonang wee, bantwana

song written and recorded in the 1998 performance

poetry festival video grahamstown with isabella in rhodes

university video title jikeleza train…

isabella motadinyane was a born genius she went as far

as grade 5 at school…highly spiritual person chosen by

her ancestors to serve them as a sangoma to be… if you

argue or disagree without any valid reasonable point …

uyadoya you fail dismal she would put you to shame and

prove you wrong on the spot and make you feel stupid she

does not care whether you are white or black makhulu baas

or top shayela…academic brat at school she memorized a

narrative from the unknown author “the extract from the

dangerous ground,” which could beautifully chant word

for word with such a marvellous understanding to me. she

was extraordinary singer, dancer, poet, actress, performer,

a unique soulmate and we used to influence each other

in one way or the other at times we could stay away from

drinking for six to seven weeks period during that time

facing the harshness of life reality…

sober-minded in pains she would come to me and say that

there is something which is running from her stomach to

her throat and choking her making it difficult for her to

breathe…and you could see her hopeless pale face and

that she is in a pensive mood and losing weight and then

she would go on for weeks praying and taking instructions

from her ancestors consulting with christian prophets

sangomas friends for advice then slowly she would regain

her weight and her face looking brighter she would come

up with those ehchu…ehchu sound farting and we would

both laugh hysterical that the pain is gone out with the fart

then we would resume our eat and drinking spree when

she is good and ready in her pretty mood with her strong

spiritual belief she would say to me amongst her ancestors

she is guided by three outstanding characters, a christian

prophet, a sangoma and an aggressive dumb founded

instructor who facilitates messages amongst christian

prophets and sangomas…the dumb founded character

usually visit her when she is on a beer drinking spree and

also come in on special visit or a call to deliver and facilitate

an assignment amongst people she used to work with

practice or help or assist she could not charge on her own

accord her patients she could only go along with what they

give her as long as at the end of the day she could afford

a beer to console herself and rejoice. and that used to

make me feel sad and disoriented because even people in

the arts in the creative writing and poetry performances

people just want to be entertained mahala free bees they

just don’t feel like paying or buying products of the arts

they don’t care what you eat at the end of the day or how

you make a living – they just don’t have respect for our

creative efforts as artist and that is why we perish in vain

and so poor wihout anyone who cares a damn at the end of

the day jikelele…