Winning poet’s winning POEM

Katleho Shoro #CSPSlam Ch.2 winner’s winning poem.

Enjoy,

                                                   BLASPHEMY

Bow down.

Praise me.

I am that religion that came as a delicious dream,

I am that God that came via false missionaries that led you to that slavery.

I am that truth that helped you forget your truth

and now, Badimo ba lona ha le khone hoba peleta

empa laka lebitso le tswa ka dinko tsa lona

tse se phara, tse le fapantseng hobona.

Bona bale who fed you a manuscript

that conveniently inscripted their rights to trade you,

as long as my name, GOD, they used.

//

Dear Modimo,

Shit! Kana ke tlare Modimo ke mang when I know the word God?

Dear God.

God, I wish I knew you true then I wouldn’t be blasphemous in this bitter tune.

God, I wish I could pray and believe that the “Our Father” makes Soweto dreams come true.

You see my granddaddies, God, they bartered everything they had in exchange for you,

the same God who had them swinging to the blues and singing “Amazing Grace”

God, how sweet the sound of that freedom that they will never taste.

God, I too proudly verbalise Oxford’s definitions of a freedom but when it comes to annunciating its meaning, ho peleta is a MOTHER…

//

FUCK!

Lona, keep your notions of a freedom and leave us space to be our kind of free!

Lona, keep your stories of a lightly tanned Jesus

until you realise that what you leave out of history of my ancestry.

(A recognizable part of me!)

 

Fine!

I realise that as past native, I messed up

I fucked up, I fucked up.

I failed to see that the Holy Bible was their trick and their treat.

I failed to inhale the lines in between that covered up sexism,

slavery and rights to superiority.

 

Even as past native woman

I longed to be a Virgin Mary,

forgetting to question whether I’d still be leader of that story

if Joseph could have babies, biologically.

So as woman I took the blame:

I am a descendant of an Eve who twisted an Adam’s arm

to put her apple in his mouth,

ground it between his teeth.

But I dare not speak of the slippery, sly angel serpent

who snuck up behind an Eve

to help her discover her sexuality

because forget the number of fucks in this piece

talking about Eve getting off is blasphemy.

 

As present, native darkie

Ndaneta!

I’m tired of living in the hope that my death will one day bring significance to my life.

Ek is gatvol of being pumped full of daai man se conspiracies,

daai mense se theories about religion bettering my life.

Too many people die IN THE NAME OF JESUS. AMEN!

Really? Amen?

Too many people’s insides are exposed, left to dry because they happen to land on landmines or whatever

happened to believe that blowing up their insides would help free another man’s mind.

(Not in the name of Allah. No!)

 

I get tired when I see babies turned into refugees,

needing to run and hide in hills

because they’re being killed brutally – never softly

whether they’re ready or not to believe in anything.

 

I’m not saying I know everything,

But I’m pretty sure the living book of botho states that:

Before you hate me because I’m Christian,

Terrorise me because I’m Muslim,

Doubt me because I’m pagan

Or fear cos voodoo is my religion…

Ke motho.

Look at Me and BELIEVE I’m human.

Believe.

That would be Godly…

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