Mourning Zambulu

Before you proceed: I wrote this a while ago. And for some reason have decided to keep it here. It is not the most coherent piece. But its life here is important for the greater good of the blog. 😀


The very name inspired terror.Pity is your new name.I see the criers. The food. Your warriors. Your war prizes adorn themselves beautifully,as if for a second marriage.Your fifteen children bathe in ash and use the sack to hide their young nakedness. Oh Zambulu, they rain for you. How then can i say this thing in my mind, how can i let this evil out? No i must not. For though you are now a log of wood, with no breath or libido, though a fly with love for shit, is mightier than you now, i must not disrespect you.

Remember our first time? the stars? Oh Vicious Zambulu, cursed be you. To bring me such happiness and take it away. I thought for a moment, i had found something to live for, my personal shining moon. It dimmed, that moon, as fresher butts appeared and i took on the name ‘First wife’!. It was your lips that did it, so much joy before, then sorrow. You called me a hag, dry tree, old rag. Your gaze rested on me for as long as it takes to blink. The gaze that watered me, when it was just us. Why then shall i not be a dry tree Zambulu? Answer me! Get up from the box in which the funeral youths have placed you and answer me. Yet, i mourn you. I must not talk about the dead in this manner. I must not.

The sinful secret i bear within me is joy, Zambulu. The thorn embedded in my heart is gone. The little piece of meat between my teeth is out. The ache of losing you is gone. And now, i must gather my old loincloth, which have outlived your young muscles and supervise the burial rites. For i hear the little dame who still carries your baby insisting “We must not start without First wife”. Rest Zambulu.


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