Sandpaper
I had a friend long ago, all limbs and heartache.
I had a friend long ago, all limbs and heartache.
When you claim to write comedy people expect you to make it funny.
And I think of the time I had to write 6 stories a day, sweating words out, squeezing them from the back of a crusted-over pimple. It was a terrible thing, and I have nothing good to say except I was very bad at it, and this was somewhat redemptive.
Noticing the drag of time, fingernails on a chalkboard—almost oppressive—like cooking timers, how they sound out each second, a metronome of restlessness.
The sky falls to its knees in Ntulele
And it sounds like riverstones,
keys to nothing in particular,
dropped windchimes,
Water-hollowed bone
The hardening of soft feet,
Like sandle straps cutting,
zipper stuck to skin.
Humour is laughing at what you haven’t got when you ought to have it.
The history of Africa over the last five centuries is inextricably enmeshed in the history of the capitalist system. The world capitalist system is, therefore, the broad canvas on which is inscribed the social, political, and cultural struggles of the African people.
I have come across a new category of research, namely, pseudo research. It camouflages itself as applied research. But its design and execution and the quality of information it generates rule out any applicability of its findings.
Nkrumah continued the Pan-African project after independence, while Kenyatta set out to consolidate a neocolonial proto-bourgeoisie in his country.
All truth is contingent, which comes with its own perils. It is the task of a committed intellectual to discover its contingency and negotiate around its perils.