I Am Somebody

Lunchtime by Oswald Kucherera(unedited).

Its lunch hour. The city is bustling with people zipping up and down the streets. I decided to take a stroll. I picked my book from my desk and walked into Spin street. I went straight to the Company's Gardens passing by the Desmond Tutu's Anglican Church. There is a fruit stall on the Company's Gardens entrance gate. I bought me some fruits. They are nicely packaged and looked fresh. In the Garden's I spotted an empty bench. I went straight to occupy it. There is quite a few people in the Gardens. It's a beautiful warm day. There are school children coming back from school. Not far from where I am seated a couple is lounging on the well-groomed lawn , sunning their bodies. There is a group of young people choreographing some hip hop dance moves. They are young dreamers full of enthuasist and zest, hoping to appear on glossy Television sets in some musical videos.
I opened my book and read a short story eating the fruits. The writer is a humorist, I found myself giggling incessantly on my own. I hope the onlookers didn't think I am mad. When I finished reading, the couple sunning their bodies had left. I had been absorbed with the story such that I did not notice them leaving. The pigeons and seagulls are crowding around me determined to get some crumbs from the fruits I am eating. I threw a piece of an apple and watch them competing to grab first. It's the survival of the fittest. Just like in our lives. We jostle and elbow each other for crumbs.
My lunch time is almost over. I took a long way back to work. I went up to Long Street. It's my favourite route. I walk slowly admiring the beautiful architecture. I passby Clarke's bookstore and check the titles on display. This is where I get to see the recently released books. I don't have money to buy though. I always admire those who are privileged to buy books when they are still fresh. I passedby the Mosque. People are congregating outside. It's the worshipping hour for Muslims. A loud voice of an Imam reciting the prayer reverberates. Some people are still flocking to the Mosque. They are holding mats in their hands thats how I spotted them. Some are carrying cardboard boxes to use in place of mats. When I reached the FNB ATM s*x workers are lining up the road.
'Business!'. They speak in hushed tones.
' I will give you good price shorty' .They are trying to lure my attention. They almost got it. I was unhappy when she called me shorty. But I am tempted to ask, ' So how much for a quickie?' Then I heard commotion coming from the ATMs. There is tussling and fighting. Before I understood whats going on a formally well-dressed middle-aged man threw his satchel on the ground and started running. 'Mubambe! Mubambe!' People are shouting chasing the man.
'He is a card thief!' someone shouted.
As the man running was about to get into Greenmarket Square, a hub for refugees and immigrants traders, someone caught him on the legs and he went tumbling on the tarred road. People gathered quickly and started beating the hell out of him. His pleading for mercy falling on deaf ears. He started bleeding from the mouth and head. Possibly lost some of his teeth. He had fallen headlong on the ground and sustained a head injury. The CCID security guards and police in the vicinity quickly came to the scene and took charge. The security radioed the supporting team and the security car came, handcuffed the guy and left with him. Since it's Friday, I was sure he will spend the weekend in holding cells. I was late. I rushed back to work.

IT'S TIME TO CLEAN THE AUGUST HOUSE by Oswald Kucherera.

It's three o'clock in the afternoon,
sitting on the street corner with gents,
blazing a Malawian joint,
meditating on what my brother laments,
'It's time to clean the house,
sweep the dirt into the dustbin of history'

I won't be masquerading as a gifted lyricist,
or premier poet of our times.
This is not a classic song,
I won't be chanting any rhymes
Like those hymnal Catholic songs.
I am tired of greedy politicians and their games;
milking and sucking the country dry,
urinating on people's rights,
driving young people into deep doldrums of despair,
pushing the youths to the streets,
forcing them into a precipitate flight.
Everything is in a state of decay.
The youths are not to blame;
the august house is rotten to the core,
stinking of rot.
It's time to clean the house,
sweep the dirt into the dustbin of history.

I won't pretend to be a messiah or messenger,
my song is devoid of any poetic message.
I am not here to save anyone,
neither am I here to communicate anything.
If you are waiting for the messiah to come,
you will wait for the whole of eternity,
listen to the wise words of the music shaman, Bob Marley,
'Get up, Stand up and fight.'
Everything must change.
It's time to clean the house,
sweep the dirt into the dustbin of history.