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On the days life has no definite answers.

Tsholofelo is Frantic about people who do not appreciate art. She Draws and paints in her free time. New restaurants thrill her.

The reality is we live running, hoping that after that hour in a bath with scented candles something will evolve. It should not even be the case, sometimes the

Nostalgic math

Whenever I cross my legs and eat corn flakes with warm milk my memory always runs back to a trance where I was five years old. I had a friend and we would run to her house, sit next to each other, cross our legs and eat those warm bowls full of cornflakes made from her mother's love. She moved, life turned on it's new leaves, it played catch with hands of the clock. Wherever she is, I know she is more beautiful than I can remember her. Some memories are better left unsaid. You see, I talk about memory because I intend to live an extraordinary life, not because I think I will make it in life. I speak about memory because I know I will always carry all the women that made me. I embody all their ode to my lifeline.
I have met a lot. All of their memories are like a spec of light and dust, trasculent, a reflection of what heaven is. It is not the warm bowl childhood friend I only remember. I remember my life long grandmother's best friend that passed away three years ago, my last memory of her is her love and her balmy spirit. She left her life long husband whom she used used to take walks with holding hands in the afternoon stone cold from lonliness. But like me, I'm sure memory has made him, it keeps him company in winter cold nights. I remember my other childhood friend who was from Zimbabwe named Panashe, in my wildest dreams I will never forget her. She revealed to me what it means to be black and burning of blackness. I remember all of them. I remember them from train stations, from my dreams, from books, Assatou, Ramatoulauyi, Tambudzai, Ezi, Sula, Eva, Warsan Shire, Nnu Egu, Linda, Ijeoma, Janie, Nyasha, Mashingayi. I remember Ntanana, Ntanana has my heart. I remember Aunty Ifeoma. I intend to live an extraordinary life. A life lit on by an ode to me. Like I am the sky and millions of lanterns written in them, wishes are sent up to me. Like I am a deserving black unicorn.

19 Oct, Saturday , unprovoked provoked mornings, before my coffee

And like it should, winsmills swayed, sun rays continued to breathe in our skins.

But I lost the spec of what it is to be human, not in the way of wanting to die , in the way I thought of cold cereal , warm bodies, butterflies, birds, rain,math and sad songs, in between the blue crisp and green pasture what was life?

And like it should there were still books about cleopatra, there were still fields full of cactus plants, there were still the smell of cigarettes , there were still torn jeans and poetry slams

But there was me learning that breathing is important when I had to silence the fighting voice inside that wanted to come out when I was crying, I started counting, like I did in the first grade to pace with my chest and smell toast outside.

Like it should, there were sombre old buildings and strangers smiling, there were teenage books about sex rush and big boobs.

But there were my bones hoping to ressurect the tale of life, in a death bed, with sunflowers, the one made of sour and sweet, almost the perfect as ribs platter in an afternoon summer outing.

And like it should the sun did not stop rising, pain still tip toed to the bottoms of people's tummies and made nests, bitter and bloody.

And like it should, John 11:35.

Unicorn tears

I am soft, my mind often runs to sun beams and subtle rainy days with ice cream and children running around in the park with a penny and candy floss innocence.

I play house with my soul, we talk about nostalgic music and scented candles, we talk about the colour yellow and balmy horizons.

I have been in guerilla wars, trying to fight the soft in me because the world has claws and quick sands but I am always the candy floss and scented candles, I'm always spring and yellow. All the soldiers did not help me in the war, the forests set booby traps with roses and stars and moons.

I am soft, my soft sometimes has blades, it screams with the balmy landscapes, it screams and cuts with it's calmness, the kind you got when you were five and you played in the sun the whole day and you went home and took a bath with baby soap.

If my life was a song it would be a calibre with rollercoasters and instruments delivering stories about nirvana.

Call my womb, tell it to help me fight, if I should. The world is not only made of honey comb and palmy trees.
My soul sometimes sings me lullabies, it tells me that my soft is my life and death, it is my grave and the screams of birth.

Untitled outro

And slowly but all at once I entered in the spirit. My mothers and grandmothers were there, a whole lineage of my feminine spirits were praying. An ode from them to the pits of my being. They put a lamb; light, life. They brewed the beginning of a new life for every day the sun touches the skies.

I taste it in my tongue, in the words that come from my mouth, fierce and bred from the blood, of the womb, of bible scriptures, of the cross. Of life.

And so the spirit remained my body's desirable refuge. A lifeline of my beginning and no end. The breasts I weaned from do not believe in death, they believe in life, life, life is the only thing that is, remember Lazarus? Joseph and his dreams? Abraham and his nations? Moses and the mountain and his long living life? In every paper we fiddle in , in the bible.

And so I closed my eyes and saw visions of deity and candles. A vivid alignment of what should grow of me, of what should be of my spirit. It was the humour of spring, of a blossoming voice giving birth to liberation, of life.

I felt aggressive screams beat at the top of my chest, almost alive. They were a feeling of liberation, balmy as the colour yellow, inevitable as what is of the moon, full or not, our eyes always rise up to it and see it.

It was an epiphany,
From the womb of my spirit, an ode.

My hands open wide and wait to the daughter I will give birth to one day. She will be courageous like the carriage of my spiritual lineage.


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