Where Is The Love?

I continue to search tirelessly through the rubble of my being, peeping eagerly through the cracks of my broken heart, and paging anxiously through memories and wishes.
But in the paralyses of my senses I cannot seem to find any garment of hope to wear, because everywhere I go thinking hope were there, I only find dead hope, pealing off the walls like dry paint.
Every tree I stand under is of dry branches, hope has fallen off with the leaves sneaking under my heels, the crisp sound of flaking hopelessness, to the descend of my every footstep.

Every person with whom I converse tells me that Iooze with negative energy, but who can blame me?
When, in my quest at every corner I have met only with hopelessness.
But they do try to encourage me, to have a more positive outlook of my troubles and woes, to claim them and use them as steppingstones, towards a less gloomier attitude.
But my kind of troubles and woes are only steppingstones, in a downward staircase leading towards an ally in a dark abyss.

They say that love is a drug, and that heartbreak is your body in withdrawal.
But you see, what they do not know is that:
Heartbreak,
Gave my heart a break,
From all the heartache,
My heart paid;
When I placed my heart
In the hands of a foul-mate,
That I awfully mistook
For a soul-mate.
So, “where is the love”? You ask me!
In my journey of a hopeless miles, I have come ti the profound realisation that: love sought, is virtually love bought.
And as in any such transaction, the expectation of any merchant, is profit and a return on investment.
But love does not have a price-tag, it is not a good in a market place, it cannot be traded.
Rather, love is to be shared, to be given away freely.
So sprinkle it all aroun, until the natural order of God, punctuates it perfectly into your seemingly loveless story of your life.
And I promise you, like a boomerang, love will always find its way back to you.

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Restoration!

The time is Three Fifteen AM, as I find myself wondering under moonlight, swimming in a pool of the concentrated salt-water that is my thoughts; whose piercing sensation cuts deep into my eyes, causing them to weep onto this paper, words, potent with regret and hurt. I try to wipe away the tears but my hands are covered in red, drenched to the skin with the blood of those that have found themselves wandering under the sharp edges of my so-called-love. I could have sworn that I loved her eternally, but time being time ticked and tocked and knocked reality into that fallacy, and so her fantasy branded with Cinderella-perfection scabbed away all too soon, opening her old injury that soon became a fresh wound. And the numbness in her womb seeped up into her heart, masking up its sensitivity to feel any form of true love. But who can blame her?

When your heart has been broken enough times, the messages of true affection never really reach their intended and rightful destinations, all because the nerve-endings of the heart just hang loosely between the cracks of your broken spirit. So how do I live with myself, knowing that I am the breaker of an overly fragile heart, and a part of a squad of  guys who play catch with the heart of another Adam’s rib, the bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, Eve! The doctors say that she has been broken beyond repair, and that even the Medical Aid Policy she subscribed to would not cover the costs of life support of her broken heart any longer. Death is indeed imminent. So no hope resides in this chapter of her “love story”.

“It’s all in God’s hands now”, one of the doctors  hopelessly remarked. But things soon took a dramatic turn the day she whispered a quiet prayer in her soul. The author of her love story looked down upon her, as she lay on her ICU hospital bed and said, “My child I see you, and I will cease your pain at once”. A bright light then shined upon her infecting her with a  strong sense of hope. It is then that she understood that life is solar powered, it needs the Son to recharge, and that when He, the Son, said “It is finished”, it marked not the end but only the beginning, it marked not His fall but rather His Ascension, on to His throne of glory, from which He would rewrite her story, the story of her new love life. The throne from which she knew, He would remould her heart anew, because she knew, she knew better, to seek Him first, the potter. Today when she walks the streets of Gaborone, just as only Jesus’ disciples saw Him after resurrection, only worthy men see her, because she has been born again, revived and restored. Nowadays she only lies in a bed lined with sheets of divinity and will only give herself to a man triple-checked by the Trinity. Because now for any man to woo her, it is through the way of one but three avenues, either the Father, the Son or the Holy Spirit.

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You introduced me to Love

You introduced me to Love
You introduced me to Love
Whom I thought I knew
But I didn’t.
You are thee ultimate package
Of a “must have” in life.
I have really enjoyed
The warmth of your friendship
Over the years.
Here is to an ionic bond that
Shall last a lifetime on earth
and beyond in the Heavenlies.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MYTSOTSO
Written By: Banyana Baxie Kebalefetse
For: Yvonne Tsona Mpofu
Tsona and Bax
Gola O Gole

Gola O Gole

Days come and days go, but some days don’t just come
And blessèd ones like these don’t just go. They leave
Marks, and live forever, like Hallmarks!

Today, time was punctuated and the pages of its story
Caught a fire, ignited with flames that don’t burn to
Destroy but to illuminate. Today, is the spring of a
Season in the family, the unveiling of a bright, fun,
And colourful flower. Today is your birthday, Gola o
Gole, o segohale o tsohale!

Yvonne ‘Tsona’ Mpofu

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Chasing Amber

Today I ran after the sunset, literally! I had gone out to get my camera from the car to take it into the house and the sun was setting. And as usual my eyes looked about into the wide skies and were met with a beautiful bright amber hiding behind the community junior school. I thought to grab my camera and snap a picture of her quick and I did. But I wanted to see all of her, not hidden behind anything. And so I thought why not find a spot at which she would be all out and exposed. So I went into the car started the engine and hit the dirt road without looking back. With my eyes set on the big and round orange phenomenon in the west, I drove down the Tsatsu seeking the perfect spot for my ‘perfect shot’…whatever that means! 

Now a couple of huge dust clouds behind me, I thought I’d found it when I suddenly hit the brakes and did a swift three point turn to veer off the road and finally take my ‘perfect shot’. But as I opened the door, camera ready in hand, I lifted my eyes to the western horizon and encountered a disappearing beauty. I watched as the amber melted away into the bluish grey ngwaketsi sky. And that was it! The sun had set on me and my hope to capture her beautiful flaunt before departure. I have always said I’d sit and watch the sun rise or set but never got around to it, and would always watch it move down or up the horizon. But it never occurred to me that what that meant was that I’d always seen the sun before and after the disappeared or appeared. But this time, I watched it really set. I saw it as its amber receded and literally melt away before my eyes, a beauty I don’t believe I could ever capture in a still picture even it were from a perfect spot, it could never be the ‘perfect shot’.

There is amber hiding behind the trees and community junior school buildings.
Moments after amber melted away into the horizon and left me in awe.

Lokhwabe

Lokhwabe


When I saw the sign I had to STOP! Because it bore boldly the name ‘home’. Lokgwabe is the home and birthplace of my dearest father. I was born in Gaborone, the busy capital of Botswana. It is the place I know more than any other that I have ever been to. But one day, very soon in fact, I will start to document the story of my people, the Bangologa or ‘Bangalogi’ as my eldest uncle likes to say; or simply Bakgalagadi as many like to call us.

I have a fondness for history and since a young age, stories from our past have always just intrigued me. They have a way with my emotions that I love. Learning the history of the world has always been so much fun, but learning the history of Botswana in the past year has been more than I can even express in words, it’s a word beyond fascination, a word my tongue and lips have not learnt to dance to yet.


When @Vee Mampeezy sang “Zwakala macheng…” in Hukuntsi from the Taku Taku album, Lokhwabe is amongst the four villages in Kgalagadi north that he was referring to, together with Hukuntsi, Lehututu and Tshane. What a beautiful song that is.

I believe the future is very important and that for it to be as bright as we often hope for it to be, it has to be inspired by the past. 

IF…

IF…

If…
What if…?
If it’s writer’s block…
What if I wrote about writer’s block?

Is it still writer’s block then?

If the words are always there
And it’s the thoughts that shy away
Then why should I say…
“Writer’s block has me in chains”.

What if I jot down the random words
That fly around in my coy thoughts
Then maybe a story I can compose,
I mean look what has come of a simple ‘IF‘!

IF