Just A Passerby by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

I saw them clobber him with kieries,

I heard him scream with pain

like a victim of slaughter

I smelt fresh blood gush

5 from his nostrils,

and flow on the street.

I walked into the church

and knelt in the pew

“Lord! I love you.

10 I also love my neighbour. Amen”

I came out

my heart as light as an angel’s kiss

on the cheek of a saintly soul.

Back home I strutted

15 past a crowd of onlookers.

Then she came in –

my woman neighbour:

“Have you heard? They’ve killed your brother.”

“O! No! I have heard nothing. I’ve been to church.”

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.

Boy on a Swing by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Slowly he moves
to and fro, to and fro,
then faster and faster
he swishes up and down.

His blue shirt
billows in the breeze
like a tattered kite.

The world whirls by:
east becomes west,
north turns to south;
the four cardinal points
meet in his head.

Mother!
Where did I come from?
When will I wear long trousers?
Why was my father jailed?

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.

An Abandoned Bundle by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

The morning mist
and chimney smoke
of White City Jabavu
flowed thick yellow
as pus oozing
from a gigantic sore.

It smothered our little houses
like fish caught in a net.

Scavenging dogs
draped in red bandanas of blood
fought fiercely
for a squirming bundle.

I threw a brick
they bared fangs
flicked velvet tounges of scarlet
and scurried away,
leaving a mutilated corpse-
an infant dumped on a rubbish heap-
'Oh! Baby in the Manger
sleep well
on human dung.'

Its mother
had melted into the rays of the rising sun,
her face glittering with innocence
her heart as pure as untrampled dew.

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.

Men in Chains by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Men in Chains
The train stopped
at a country station.
Through sleep curtained eyes
I peered through the frosty window,
and saw six men:
men shorn
of all human honour
like sheep after shearing,
bleating at the blistering wind,
‘Go away! Cold wind! Go away!
Can’t you see we are naked?’
They hobbled into the train
on bare feet,
wrists handcuffed,
ankles manacled
with steel rings like cattle at the abattoirs
shying away from the trapdoor.
One man with a head
shaven clean as a potato
whispered to the rising sun,
a red eye wiped by a tattered
handkerchief of clouds,
‘Oh! Dear Sun!
Won’t you warm my heart
with hope?’
The train went on its way to nowhere.

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.

Sounds of a Cowhide Drum by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Boom! Boom! Boom!
I am the drum on your dormant soul,
cut from the black hide of a sacrificial cow.
I am the spirit of your ancestors,
habitant in hallowed huts,
eager to protect,
forever vigilant.
Let me tell you of your precious heritage,
of your glorious past trampled by the conqueror,
destroyed by the zeal of a missionary.
I lay bare facts for scrutiny
by your searching mind, all declarations and dogmas.
. . .
Boom! Boom! Boom!
That is the sound of a cowhide drum--
The Voice of Mother Africa.

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.

Nightfall in Soweto by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Nightfall comes like
a dreaded disease
seeping through the pores
of a healthy body
and ravaging it beyond repair

A murderer’s hand,
lurking in the shadows,
clasping the dagger,
strikes down the helpless victim.

I am the victim.
I am slaughtered
every night in the streets.
I am cornered by the fear
gnawing at my timid heart;
in my helplessness I languish.

Man has ceased to be man
Man has become beast
Man has become prey.

I am the prey;
I am the quarry to be run down
by the marauding beast
let loose by cruel nightfall
from his cage of death.

Where is my refuge?
Where am I safe?
Not in my matchbox house
Where I barricade myself against nightfall.

I tremble at his crunching footsteps,
I quake at his deafening knock at the door.
“Open up!” he barks like a rabid dog
thirsty for my blood.

Nightfall! Nightfall!
You are my mortal enemy.
But why were you ever created?
Why can’t it be daytime?
Daytime forever more?

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.