Spotlighting Pan-African Poetry

Biography

The Rape Capital

Enlarge poem

There’s a province in the rape capital of the South Africa womb
where cross roads are angry at men
who declare she had cigarette loose legs,
they smoke the 15 year stompie’s last death.
Autumn leaves her ashy feet on a winter street that
breaths heavy like T.B
when the wind blows her body across the road like smoke,
the tar coughs up phlegm to clear her skeleton from its chest
then summer sweats her death like granules of malaria on the pavement.

The seasons are contracting fever by day
a chronic disease called rape is floating in the air
and it’s worse than aids.
The cd4 doesn’t count yet
just the number of men you’ve slept with.
Questions will feel like knives held against your
cunt probing, are you sexually active?

Yes!!! Will sound the alarm
the sirens will raise their frowns
but the ambulance won’t come.
In the private parts of our ghetto
there are cervical wars.

Underwears are under attack.
A city of cavity walls crumble
from testicular drones,
Street lights watch
vaginas tear at the fence
there’s a cycle of menstrual men
bleeding women at their gates,
where yards tell double stories
of rape on one acre of land
her body lies bent like crescent.

No U-turn for the uterus,
so the gutters drain Noxolo Nogwaza’s pelvis.
Listen to her name it’s a peace sign getting stabbed at the end of its phrase.
Her soul has reached a dead end
in a town called Booysens,
Anene a dilapidated building
sky scraping statistics.
Can you imagine the view from the windows of her soul
when Bredasdorp let her perpetrator walk
over his sins like a bridge built on the breaking backs of women,
who stood like pillars against chauvinistic odds
you strike a woman you strike igneous rock
we will burn these tombstones.
Where we’re slaughtered like sacrificial goats
served to patriarchal Gods

who hold our bodies like oath
at the temples of their groins,
we’re sworn to serve their testosterone.

When the graves set the tables
of hate, crimes are seated
where bloody napkins
wipe their feet on table mats
laying a cutlery of bones
besides shovel like spoons,
where bowls fill like tombs
craving bodies like you
will your skeletons get out the fucken closet?

Where gay pride is hung by gender violence
there are exorcists
casting demons with their manhood from the bodies of lesbians
queens dethroned from the earth.
There are ghosts of girls clinging to umbilical cords in court
waiting for justice to be served.

Dear lord deliver us like babies away from this morgue
where mothers carry body bags in their stomachs.
The child kicking in the rape capital of the South African womb
could be you.

Mandi Poefficient Vundla

Featured Poem:

Mother

Enlarge poem

Mother, I have come to collect your spirit from the gutter,
where you marriage has left you for dead.
I am returning your body parts from their original language
they do not come from Latin
You weren’t derived from Greek translations,
but you remind me of the G
Goddess, patron of Athens
Your name begins with a Capital city
in a Village like Eden
Eve is just a farm girl
carrying holy water on her head
with a bucket from the valley of the shadow of her death

She lives hand to mouth
scrapes cents to build her paradise
the land of milk and honey, requires money.
Apples are expensive not deadly
and Eve sometimes sells them for less.
Downtown, Babylon, Johannesburg.

Where churches stand, on our promised stolen land
my people raise their hands like the Bible holds them under arrest
anything you say will be held against you on judgment day,
but we’re judged everyday
by the colour of our sin
our skin can’t repent for being black.
Mary is a domestic worker scrubbing floor with Jesus on her back
He is washed in our blood
we were crucified, so he could live a privileged life.

We were never saved
Adam sold us out.
Apartheid was born again
at the altar under Christian names
like Joshua, Jesus and James
where art the apostles Ayanda, Lulama, Tisetso,Mpho?

Thy will can’t be done on earth
coz their Heaven don’t teach black pride to our prodigal sons at birth
Church is a placebo effect
A scripture a day, doesn’t keep the hunger away.
What scriptures did we believe in before Christ
How many of our Gods have been crucified on their cross,
we’ve all been sacrificed
in the name of our fathers
who walked out on their creation
to serve the spirit in bear bottles
calling on Moses to testify, that the burning bush
the burning bush, is a holy herb and we must all smoke.
He is high on Heaven, believing Armageddon is the end of the world
when it is the end of the world inside our souls
that makes us bow our heads to the lord
believing white Jesus can save black souls
coz he died on the cross.

Biko died in police custody
he left a verse In the hands of the oppressor
the most potent weapon ios the mind of the oppressed
Deliver yourselves from evil
you re the answers to your prayers.

Sobukwe died for a clause
so you could remember, the power and the glory in your name
because they failed to give it back.
Preserve the black in your body like in to a history deserving the truth.
The biggest hell, is that of self-doubt
Heaven is a place where you go to learn to love yourself.

My mother is a verse that reminds me of self.
Thato Tsoeu 1: 2 said “let there be light in our hearts”
So she raised us like pyramids
we are growing synagogues
here to worship at the house of her Cathedral
her body is my temple
I was made in her image
I have bedroom eyes at the windows of her soul where she sees right through me
when they say Jesus is coming
tell the my mother is already here.
When her spirit comes down, I pray in mother tongues
“weh mangikuhlabela lenkonzo usaphila name”

Mother.
I am slaughtering half my lungs to give you all my breath
in the name of our black Gods that never rose from the dead
I will believe in white Jesus when he comes back
bearing Biko on the cross
and we can bow our heads to that

mandi_vundla_badilisha_poetry

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (3)
  • Pride (6)
  • Optimism (1)
  • Anger (0)
  • Delight (1)
  • Inspiration (4)
  • Reflection (3)
  • Captivation (2)
  • Peace (1)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (2)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (3)
  • Sadness (1)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

Comments

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Biography

Mandi Poefficient Vundla is a writer and spoken word ambassador, born in Soweto, Johannesburg.

She made her debut in the world of competitive poetry in 2011. Since then, she has appeared at different events on various stages, including the State Theater’s Night of the Poets, and the Jozi Book Fair, where she was part of the protest poetry panel discussion hosted by Poetry Potion, a monthly online journal that profiles poetry communities.

Vundla has shared the stage with Myesha Jenkins, Natalia Molebatsi, Lebo Mashile, Phillippa
Yaa De Villiers, Napo Masheane, Afurakan, Tumelo Khoza, Keisha Monique Simons, UK’s Yrsa
Daley-Ward, Chanelle Gabriels (U.S), Joshua Bennett (U.S), Busiswa qulu, Kabomo Vilakazi , Neo Muyanga, Muta Baruka, Tumi of the Volume and many more. She has also performed alongside the legendary Pops Mohammed and opened the stage for Ian Kamau (U.S), career highlights include her appearance on e-tv’s breakfast show, Khaya fm, Power fm, Sunrise, 702, Radio 2000, shiznizz, and opening for Tedx Johannesburg, she went on to co-hosted Tedx Soweto.

Performances Include:
-Action aid’s 5 year country strategy launch
-KPMG women’s breakfast
-The screening of the ‘Girl Rising’ documentary, hosted by Intel Africa.
-Commemorating 20 years of the Native land act in Nasrec .
-Bertha Gxowa Memorial Lecture
-Smac Gallery

Features:
-The Citizen
-The Star
-True Love Magazine’s September edition, where she dedicated a poem to South Africa for
Heritage month.
-Twelve + One Botsotso Anthology featuring Jo’burg poets
-News Day [Zim]

Festivals:
-Poetry Africa
-Arts Alive
-The National Arts Festival in Grahamstown
-The Spoken freedom fest, hosted by Word n Sound in conjunction with the Market Theater.
-Afr(we)ka Festival in conjunction with WordNSound and The DAC
-Harare International Festival
-Venice Biennale in Italy, where she opened for the South African Pavilion

Vundla is the co-editor of an international anthology that features 24 young influential writers titled ‘ HOME IS WHERE THE MIC IS’ published by Botsotso

Vundla is currently a member of the Word N Sound content production team.
Dubbed Queen of the Word N Sound Mic 2012 in Johannesburg’s prestigious Slam, she went on to win the Poet of the Year award, and broke her own record by defending her own WordnSound queen of the mic title.

She is the undisputed queen of the word n Sound mic 2012+2013

Mandi Poefficient Vundla

mandi_vundla_badilisha_poetry
mandi_vundla_badilisha_poetry

Biography

Mandi Poefficient Vundla is a writer and spoken word ambassador, born in Soweto, Johannesburg.

She made her debut in the world of competitive poetry in 2011. Since then, she has appeared at different events on various stages, including the State Theater’s Night of the Poets, and the Jozi Book Fair, where she was part of the protest poetry panel discussion hosted by Poetry Potion, a monthly online journal that profiles poetry communities.

Vundla has shared the stage with Myesha Jenkins, Natalia Molebatsi, Lebo Mashile, Phillippa
Yaa De Villiers, Napo Masheane, Afurakan, Tumelo Khoza, Keisha Monique Simons, UK’s Yrsa
Daley-Ward, Chanelle Gabriels (U.S), Joshua Bennett (U.S), Busiswa qulu, Kabomo Vilakazi , Neo Muyanga, Muta Baruka, Tumi of the Volume and many more. She has also performed alongside the legendary Pops Mohammed and opened the stage for Ian Kamau (U.S), career highlights include her appearance on e-tv’s breakfast show, Khaya fm, Power fm, Sunrise, 702, Radio 2000, shiznizz, and opening for Tedx Johannesburg, she went on to co-hosted Tedx Soweto.

Performances Include:
-Action aid’s 5 year country strategy launch
-KPMG women’s breakfast
-The screening of the ‘Girl Rising’ documentary, hosted by Intel Africa.
-Commemorating 20 years of the Native land act in Nasrec .
-Bertha Gxowa Memorial Lecture
-Smac Gallery

Features:
-The Citizen
-The Star
-True Love Magazine’s September edition, where she dedicated a poem to South Africa for
Heritage month.
-Twelve + One Botsotso Anthology featuring Jo’burg poets
-News Day [Zim]

Festivals:
-Poetry Africa
-Arts Alive
-The National Arts Festival in Grahamstown
-The Spoken freedom fest, hosted by Word n Sound in conjunction with the Market Theater.
-Afr(we)ka Festival in conjunction with WordNSound and The DAC
-Harare International Festival
-Venice Biennale in Italy, where she opened for the South African Pavilion

Vundla is the co-editor of an international anthology that features 24 young influential writers titled ‘ HOME IS WHERE THE MIC IS’ published by Botsotso

Vundla is currently a member of the Word N Sound content production team.
Dubbed Queen of the Word N Sound Mic 2012 in Johannesburg’s prestigious Slam, she went on to win the Poet of the Year award, and broke her own record by defending her own WordnSound queen of the mic title.

She is the undisputed queen of the word n Sound mic 2012+2013

The Rape Capital

Enlarge poem

There’s a province in the rape capital of the South Africa womb
where cross roads are angry at men
who declare she had cigarette loose legs,
they smoke the 15 year stompie’s last death.
Autumn leaves her ashy feet on a winter street that
breaths heavy like T.B
when the wind blows her body across the road like smoke,
the tar coughs up phlegm to clear her skeleton from its chest
then summer sweats her death like granules of malaria on the pavement.

The seasons are contracting fever by day
a chronic disease called rape is floating in the air
and it’s worse than aids.
The cd4 doesn’t count yet
just the number of men you’ve slept with.
Questions will feel like knives held against your
cunt probing, are you sexually active?

Yes!!! Will sound the alarm
the sirens will raise their frowns
but the ambulance won’t come.
In the private parts of our ghetto
there are cervical wars.

Underwears are under attack.
A city of cavity walls crumble
from testicular drones,
Street lights watch
vaginas tear at the fence
there’s a cycle of menstrual men
bleeding women at their gates,
where yards tell double stories
of rape on one acre of land
her body lies bent like crescent.

No U-turn for the uterus,
so the gutters drain Noxolo Nogwaza’s pelvis.
Listen to her name it’s a peace sign getting stabbed at the end of its phrase.
Her soul has reached a dead end
in a town called Booysens,
Anene a dilapidated building
sky scraping statistics.
Can you imagine the view from the windows of her soul
when Bredasdorp let her perpetrator walk
over his sins like a bridge built on the breaking backs of women,
who stood like pillars against chauvinistic odds
you strike a woman you strike igneous rock
we will burn these tombstones.
Where we’re slaughtered like sacrificial goats
served to patriarchal Gods

who hold our bodies like oath
at the temples of their groins,
we’re sworn to serve their testosterone.

When the graves set the tables
of hate, crimes are seated
where bloody napkins
wipe their feet on table mats
laying a cutlery of bones
besides shovel like spoons,
where bowls fill like tombs
craving bodies like you
will your skeletons get out the fucken closet?

Where gay pride is hung by gender violence
there are exorcists
casting demons with their manhood from the bodies of lesbians
queens dethroned from the earth.
There are ghosts of girls clinging to umbilical cords in court
waiting for justice to be served.

Dear lord deliver us like babies away from this morgue
where mothers carry body bags in their stomachs.
The child kicking in the rape capital of the South African womb
could be you.

Featured Poem:

Mother

Enlarge poem

Mother, I have come to collect your spirit from the gutter,
where you marriage has left you for dead.
I am returning your body parts from their original language
they do not come from Latin
You weren’t derived from Greek translations,
but you remind me of the G
Goddess, patron of Athens
Your name begins with a Capital city
in a Village like Eden
Eve is just a farm girl
carrying holy water on her head
with a bucket from the valley of the shadow of her death

She lives hand to mouth
scrapes cents to build her paradise
the land of milk and honey, requires money.
Apples are expensive not deadly
and Eve sometimes sells them for less.
Downtown, Babylon, Johannesburg.

Where churches stand, on our promised stolen land
my people raise their hands like the Bible holds them under arrest
anything you say will be held against you on judgment day,
but we’re judged everyday
by the colour of our sin
our skin can’t repent for being black.
Mary is a domestic worker scrubbing floor with Jesus on her back
He is washed in our blood
we were crucified, so he could live a privileged life.

We were never saved
Adam sold us out.
Apartheid was born again
at the altar under Christian names
like Joshua, Jesus and James
where art the apostles Ayanda, Lulama, Tisetso,Mpho?

Thy will can’t be done on earth
coz their Heaven don’t teach black pride to our prodigal sons at birth
Church is a placebo effect
A scripture a day, doesn’t keep the hunger away.
What scriptures did we believe in before Christ
How many of our Gods have been crucified on their cross,
we’ve all been sacrificed
in the name of our fathers
who walked out on their creation
to serve the spirit in bear bottles
calling on Moses to testify, that the burning bush
the burning bush, is a holy herb and we must all smoke.
He is high on Heaven, believing Armageddon is the end of the world
when it is the end of the world inside our souls
that makes us bow our heads to the lord
believing white Jesus can save black souls
coz he died on the cross.

Biko died in police custody
he left a verse In the hands of the oppressor
the most potent weapon ios the mind of the oppressed
Deliver yourselves from evil
you re the answers to your prayers.

Sobukwe died for a clause
so you could remember, the power and the glory in your name
because they failed to give it back.
Preserve the black in your body like in to a history deserving the truth.
The biggest hell, is that of self-doubt
Heaven is a place where you go to learn to love yourself.

My mother is a verse that reminds me of self.
Thato Tsoeu 1: 2 said “let there be light in our hearts”
So she raised us like pyramids
we are growing synagogues
here to worship at the house of her Cathedral
her body is my temple
I was made in her image
I have bedroom eyes at the windows of her soul where she sees right through me
when they say Jesus is coming
tell the my mother is already here.
When her spirit comes down, I pray in mother tongues
“weh mangikuhlabela lenkonzo usaphila name”

Mother.
I am slaughtering half my lungs to give you all my breath
in the name of our black Gods that never rose from the dead
I will believe in white Jesus when he comes back
bearing Biko on the cross
and we can bow our heads to that

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (3)
  • Pride (6)
  • Optimism (1)
  • Anger (0)
  • Delight (1)
  • Inspiration (4)
  • Reflection (3)
  • Captivation (2)
  • Peace (1)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (2)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (3)
  • Sadness (1)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

The Rape Capital

Enlarge poem

There’s a province in the rape capital of the South Africa womb
where cross roads are angry at men
who declare she had cigarette loose legs,
they smoke the 15 year stompie’s last death.
Autumn leaves her ashy feet on a winter street that
breaths heavy like T.B
when the wind blows her body across the road like smoke,
the tar coughs up phlegm to clear her skeleton from its chest
then summer sweats her death like granules of malaria on the pavement.

The seasons are contracting fever by day
a chronic disease called rape is floating in the air
and it’s worse than aids.
The cd4 doesn’t count yet
just the number of men you’ve slept with.
Questions will feel like knives held against your
cunt probing, are you sexually active?

Yes!!! Will sound the alarm
the sirens will raise their frowns
but the ambulance won’t come.
In the private parts of our ghetto
there are cervical wars.

Underwears are under attack.
A city of cavity walls crumble
from testicular drones,
Street lights watch
vaginas tear at the fence
there’s a cycle of menstrual men
bleeding women at their gates,
where yards tell double stories
of rape on one acre of land
her body lies bent like crescent.

No U-turn for the uterus,
so the gutters drain Noxolo Nogwaza’s pelvis.
Listen to her name it’s a peace sign getting stabbed at the end of its phrase.
Her soul has reached a dead end
in a town called Booysens,
Anene a dilapidated building
sky scraping statistics.
Can you imagine the view from the windows of her soul
when Bredasdorp let her perpetrator walk
over his sins like a bridge built on the breaking backs of women,
who stood like pillars against chauvinistic odds
you strike a woman you strike igneous rock
we will burn these tombstones.
Where we’re slaughtered like sacrificial goats
served to patriarchal Gods

who hold our bodies like oath
at the temples of their groins,
we’re sworn to serve their testosterone.

When the graves set the tables
of hate, crimes are seated
where bloody napkins
wipe their feet on table mats
laying a cutlery of bones
besides shovel like spoons,
where bowls fill like tombs
craving bodies like you
will your skeletons get out the fucken closet?

Where gay pride is hung by gender violence
there are exorcists
casting demons with their manhood from the bodies of lesbians
queens dethroned from the earth.
There are ghosts of girls clinging to umbilical cords in court
waiting for justice to be served.

Dear lord deliver us like babies away from this morgue
where mothers carry body bags in their stomachs.
The child kicking in the rape capital of the South African womb
could be you.

Comments

Your email address will not be published.