Norman Mwale [The PenPusher]
When l was a little boy,
Father taught me how to carve artefacts
From the dusty soap-rock we collected Many miles away from home,
How to simulate the weaverbird
By interlacing the beautiful buskets From the thin reeds,
How to make gourds
From dry pod shells which he proclaimed
As gourds of African consciousness,
From where life realisms shall be Slaked,
How to bury seed in the black soils
And reap in foretold shadow days,
How to swim in the muddied ponds
And catch the muddyfish to fight for the Belly,
He indeed taught me the skills of real Life,
Poising for proper humanness,
Foretelling how a man should survive
In seasons ahead of winter,
Ensuring of a dawn that would spud to Fruition with pragmatic realities
Of no intellectual hypothesis of doomsday.
It is at this stage of this profanity;
This Iron Age,
Where passers-by circularize crazy Doctrines from academic schoolhouses as Decoys
To barrow through human brainpan and Polute through various theories
That eats up a race like a cancer of the Breast,
Possibilities that teach the mental psyche How to bury seed and harvest goose-egg ln destitute enviros of academic Knowledge,
Where practice doesn’t predominate in their schools of harebrained theories!
NormanMwale@gmail.com- contact Β±263782109997
