by Unathi Slasha
You have not met a poet yet
Until you come across the warrior womb-man
That goes to war with an infant on her back
She gets letters of threats
As a Christmas gift
From the powers that be
You have not met a poet
Like you have not met God
The tribal orator
His spoken word guides
Like harangues and rebukes to the child
Like sunlight and irrigation to the seed
Like manure it stimulates
The growth of the nation
You have not met a poet
If he calls himself one
Yet speaks the subtle language of the serpent
Then sells his brethrens to the lowest bidder
If he seeks to make minions out of humble men
Belittle then exploit them like Uncle Sam
Degrade their womb-men
Then tread upon them with dusty feet
You have not met a poet
If he makes millions from selling moonshine
That inebriates the public
To lose the sense of freedom and onus
You have not met one
If you have not spoken with a person
That speaks his mind
With a sharpened tongue that cuts through lies
Paves a path through the congested bushes
Preventing the black nation
From adamantly clinging to liberation
The true tribal bard burns his suits then cut his ties with the West
You have not met a poet
If he still writes love letters to the government begging for change
Or is afraid to pinpoint the corruption of Malema
And how the president is lame
How our Heroes wiped their arses with the Freedom Charter
Or if he trembles when speaking
About the effects brought by the legacy of Madiba and Others
That got most gulping the scraps of whites in dumpsters
You are yet to meet a poet
That approaches the stage with Molotov cocktails
Then opens his mouth to fire shots
With a voice that equates the sound
Of thunderclaps
His words are a storm that stops
Daily negative operations
And activities that are do not benefit the community
He writes eulogies to black unity
Then recites a lament to the fallen
Preparing funeral arrangements for whitism
And her counterparts
You are yet to meet a poet
With the fiery breath of an angry dragon
That coughs and spits flames to the Baas and his Madam
Cursing and handing out ‘Voetsek’ tokens to
The ones responsible for his social bedlam
Stampeding upon their seeds
Uprooting their creed from our soil
You are yet to meet that poet