Son, do not drown in my absence, flooded in inspections of starvation.
Smear your speech with respect,
Feed your soul with knowledge, school your black existence,
Torture your tongue with foreign characteristics
For your black cover is of no value.
Rough on excessive temperature,
Unlike enzymes, do not denature in hell’s kitchen;
Rejuvenate at high temperature.
Do not fear the display of your background
It’s your creation not your conclusion.
My son lotion your palms for they route fragile hearts,
Stiffen the gates of your stable for your hosepipe sprinkles gardens of heaven.
Posture your structure equivalent to men in white shirt and a black bow tie.
Son let not my nonexistence forbid your manhood,
Let it not ditch your obligations to your son.
I won’t be present to take you for driving lessons
But son change the gears of your life accelerate in your achievements.
Check your rear mirrors,
Be reminded of the journeys you’ve toured.
Put on the brakes on steep hills of life.
Son do not only indicate, make that turn,
Yield at heartaches and disappointments.
My black son let the wisdom of utata father you,
Inherited from those of Desmond Tutu.
meet the poet: Nonkululeko Blackchic Ximba
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.