I am in somewhat in some sort of a shitty hole this day’s Dear Jehovah… My father, yes the old man, decided to take his sweet needed time off of earth and, hopefully, go live in paradise with Christ.
I was always fond of him, admired his well made and kept character, found him a bit odd around question/lack thereof of his Zuluness and loved the cars he built me and my friends.
I happen to be open about myself these days. Especially to my diary and even more so to Jah. There a few things I am proud of. I am proud of my mother, very proud of my sister and even prouder of this warm blood coursing through my veins…It’s noble. Few people know of the value of such a thing such as is that bore by noble blood, princes, princesses, Queens, Kings, warlords chieftains, greedy man, whores, wizards, backstabbers, snakes, cheats and man who take things not intended for them and think that can actually get away with it. Oh yes, knowing this changes things doesn’t it?
I am not high born by choice you know-if there ever really is such a thing. And nor was it my father’s or any other man born under such privileges. It rather the jove of he who chose this curse…or blessing as some would say. T he latter is true for my father and me. Destiny can such a cruel thing to a human…or animal for that matter. My grandfather was, as was his father before him born to the house of Ngobe, son of Nogwaza, son of Ndaba the first. He who was brother to Both Qwabe and Zulu, sons of Malandela the bearer of modern day Zulu, Swazi and Xhosa Kings of Southern Africa. Nogwaza and all his brothers and children are men of war. And so was my father even though he never went to one. We, out of our own lust and that of the king have murdered, raped and disposed off of many a people. Among them are mother’s people. I am an angry lad. It is not because of these that I am angry. It is not because the blood that I, through the hands of my crooked bastard uncles and ancestors have done, it is not because of the blood I find myself proud of that I am angry, even bitter. It is rather the irony and cruelty of history that I am angry. Out of my history’s loins comes my shame. Out of my very self comes my shame. I am not born of the gutter dear history, yet I live my life a waste. Running from the very people I am meant to lead. The very people my blood is meant to signify are my very murderers. I am not a king but I too have people after my neck and therefore am forced to flee and live as a foreigner in a land I love but in a land not of my own. To my dismay my blood gives no luck here. To my shame my blood-for its survival and also for that of my mother’s am forced to live an average man’s live knowing that he has a better chance at surviving it than I do; I, the man who thinks himself high born. My blood gives me no food, offers me no shelter and offers me no dignity.
It says nothing of my abilities and offers no help at proving a man of value to those people I call my ancestors. All of them dead: all of them running through my vein as my blood.
I do not dream of tyranny, I wish no kingship and dream of no revenge. All I need is a chance to be a healer. I wish only that kind of greatness for me, all else may come as is God’s own will at the time it must. I have been punished enough for my ancestors’ sins. I wish no more.
I am a man of no major talent. I have non of that. Only my thoughts and my insistence to prove myself greater than a dim witted son of the man who
will get better… became blind and crippled and therefore couldn’t help be it himself, his family nor his people. I am not sure how but I do hope my sins are forgiven and am going to be allowed by God to bring back honour among my people and family.
I hope you Jehovah will not leave my faithful mother in shame.
This shame we are living.
But things are going to get better. You never leave your people. Even in death.