Khahliso Matela - A Poem

He met himself at a bar,

Seated next to an empty man

Who told his sorrows like truth.

Wine was shaking hands in exchange for his mother’s secrets,

And when he looked back

He was a broken man twisting a guffaw at his own pain.

He found a map in his soggy pocket

Crimson paint – a map for a place to come

Immaculate,

With no remorse nor judgment.

He found himself out of skin

Glaring at a neon-sunset reeking of slum relics -

He was a broken monument

Contemplating electric storms cell-bound,

Cigarette mist tracing the threshold

Toward nipple-black night, as he finally slipped out.

He was worn – leaning over to pick up his crown

After larding on machine-food and stale drink…

The exit looking like a crowded navel,

Repose gravely yawning at a lost god’s bleeding asshole.

Anti-christ was in the radar – indifferent,

The skies shutting their eyes;

He saw blackness beyond any device

In that self-same vomit of time.

He was flossing dogs at this dying hour

In the bleak flesh portrait he was paddled with.

Electric wrath terminating all he struck his wits upon;

Distance looming between the morning’s eye

And the hungry day’s impieties assailing his tongue-slits…

Whose body was he renting?

Crucified for an omen by death’s sustenance –

In these erogenous terrains of mind’s dusk letting butchers amok

On harnessed gravel-boned youths?

Who was doping on heart-beats’ senilities –

Disharmony flailing hinges rusted, shelled,

Hysterical?

He descended from birth

Putrid yet ripe;

When he looked back – something got torn there,

Somewhere…

The billboards were too loud,

Tumultuous.

He descended through death

Punched holes in his well, and

Death-attacks spewing dust-senses

Blood-struck and crushing.

Canon clamor and rifle-serenades hijacked the bitch routes

Oily stars staring.

From the back of his head – he could hear his mother crying,

Her – looking in his eyes – empty…

Waiting for flesh to retire to soul-carriers lusty for torn flesh.

He was touching himself outside of himself,

The person-cell…

His leash of sweat

Pulsating rage rhythms acidic on his chest plate…

A crystal wail denied resolution beckoned,

As throat squirted razor-tears with a human face.

He met his Black Mary in that cathedral of shame;

He had not sinned before he crucified jesus.

He met himself in 1928,

Dug a space in the road -

A skull circle where he could tame the rains alone.

He cut himself up –

Dipped into a sea full of other phantom predators,

The sea drew back the breath from his humid vehicle…

And something was torn there…

As truth went empty –

Shadows building bond-fires in his tripe.

A Night On Long Street.

Photos: Khahliso Matela

The Poetry of Leon Damas

Backyard Gallery - Kagiso

How people develop deep feelings for a place or strongly connect with a community where they are in contact with the creative environment from other people, is an eternal puzzle - what is the “soul” of a place that continually call upon our nostalgia?

Kgosi nostalgically describes the years of his youth spent in this poor yet cosy, four roomed house, raised by his now deceased parents in the presence of grandparents as “what makes me love my hood”.

Together with a team of filmmakers, we conducted workshops at this gallery located a mere 30 kilometres from Johannesburg, and having never been there before I had no idea what to expect.  

It was a smaller gallery than I thought it would be, but it didn't matter when I took a look at the pieces that were on display, and the fact that this gallery serves some of the best food in the West Rand.

Kgosi Khumalo’s edgy and mostly very surreal paintings that intrigued the eye filled the walls, making one try to uncover why the artist had put the images together in such a way at such a space.

It is not only his works that occupy the walls of this gallery though; there are periodic exhibitions which included Tolo Pule’s Photographic Exhibition, Sipho Howard’s paintings and a pool of other local untapped talent.

The constant struggle for access to exhibition space so often experienced by black artists is what compelled Kgosi to re-innovate his childhood home into a private space that caters for art and cultural activities of the Kagiso community.

After stints of cosmopolitan life in cities like Johannesburg, and forays with international art in Berlin among other cities, Kgosi returned home to the dusty township of Kagiso.

His experience gained through artists residencies and exhibitions platforms acquired in well poised art markets, inspired the artist to device methods of giving back to the people who inspired his talents.

And this paying it forward type of philanthropy has seen his Backyard Gallery make waves in the cultural and entertainment circle in the West Rand.

But of late, the Backyard Gallery has become a space which allows the interaction of various groups having different socio-economic characteristics and cultural preferences, a nexus of black contemporary minds intermingling; a home for the dissident and culturally emancipated youth of the West Rand.

You have house music lovers flaunting style while dining on African Cuisine, a group of contemporary theatre practitioners producing provocative installations, while a variety of artists’ works hang on the walls.

A sense of personalization of space is shared by everyone who interacts with its atmosphere; I recall this feeling when Script to Screen conducted workshops at this exquisite venue. 

Well-catered and renovated after a long closure, it has been characterised with a variety of art activities, festivals and carnivals conducted in the township setting attracting a great number of people to Kagiso.

The gallery with its spatially skewed interiors and wooden furnishing could seem kitch at first glance, best of all, is the realization that there are boarding quarters at the back of the main house.

But recently hosted here are a Solo Exhibition by the renowned Lefifi Tladi, Thabo Muleleki, Velaphi Mzimba, Ezrom Legae and Hagrieves Ntukwane to name a few.

Having utilised the venue for conferences, workshops and special events, regarding this grand venture Kgosi says “the Backyard Gallery is up and running.”

Backyard Art Gallery is open from Monday to Sunday, 9am - 6pm.

Justice's War Teachings - Bavino Bachana

JUSTICE’s WAR teachings… intellectualise action actualise theory, amilcar cabralise history is a posterity quotation communicate existence, the resilience of experience express & visualise where we are a colour twist the brightness of mines meaning in image the AIR who we are moving in the direction of LIFE beauty from gloom the walls symbolise…all else is an irrelevance now the left-looking line is deft fitting the Grand Imperial Design: prostitution’s subjection to extortion global system reaction Bad Moon on the wane strikes the persian depths & it morphs in volcanic coughs * the causes mount,,,bush’s cretin eyes dance self-celebration blankness says ‘see things in a happy light it sings to the appetite. the war-cry a righteous call sacrilege innocence’s fall in beans & bullets bombs & food parcels the causes mount keep the loss-count flame-flowers burst open orgasmic come-down hearts of sand to deserts of man death is a transparent dustbin explosive see-thru to the otherside trans-portent at detonation point. of beans & bullets bombs & food parcels snatch-action-search among the finds of ‘no doubt in minds’ plunder the trampled under the powerful satisfied this hour’s rule the self-sanctified Avenging Angel the stars spangled the toxic soul-wounds walking amidst talking scars mangled in beans & bullets bombs & food parcels the DEBT no DEATH cancels * no crime slavery lumumba’s death becomes middle-aged, stirs festered memories in gangrened minds & there’s mirth at scavengers’ feasts. superiority in a colonial (adventure) mission gloats: “what count the Black Holocaust when genocide runs relative to pigment? Chief Black the granny-denture-peddler/merchant was the coprotunist- Ace of Spades sold off the rest of the pack for poo in a miniskirt… that brown nose stuck it in for the chocolate squirt” oooh bite the pill in destitute pride now is the faded prostitute’s last ride young minds get bung off behinds (&MOVE) in the last lap of the crapitalist i hear sense & sound swirl & the shampire tremble in the groundswell * i’m CANNIBAL-OX-tailed to where metal-shards & rocks wailed human missiled where the skies farted flame…in a war-game i’m pawned… ‘bomb them desert-rats out their kafiyaed holes’ oxTRUMENTALed MESSENGER BROTHERS…nowadays they don’t shoot you down THEY lick to kill you with praise until dick’s the only thing you raise. blue-chip-eyes & all defences down the poet is a clown & he’s not crying. the skin is off teeth wrapped around-back of the head gone green politics correct ‘cos evil come clean mean biting machine with souls at the stock market to collect. who’s lying who’s dying? no matter. the fighting is in the kitchen said cohen. who’s eating whom’s the question of survival. it’s cannibal on the self-preservation mission ones life’s departure another’s arrival. to make sure the south will rise again democratise put all corpses of the past on ice ‘cos none of the eastern men was wise. christ there are ships & whips in the sea of your second coming.

Photograph From The Artist 
Justice's War Teachings 

House Loves Shantel - New Talent On The House Music Scene

The fusion of female vocals to House Music over the last decade took the overall sound to a whole new level of sophistication, and this is evident when Shantel expresses herself in this peculiar genre.

This is the dawn of an age of fantastic new age female singers, and Shantel Semenya is among the few female vocalists heeding this prophesy.

In a musical landscape lacking in quality singers in soulful house music, her vocal is often the fused into the key building blocks of melodies and beats, while remaining sensitive to minor changes in intonation and vocabulary of the song itself.

Born and bred in Alexandra, she has become some kind of local celebrity, this is mainly due to her collaborations with various DJ’s which delivers intensely memorable musical experiences on the Alex Club Scene.

“When I get on that stage and transform my energy to the audience and they respond positively that makes me tick. I believe that music is the no 1 communication to a human soul it’s like therapy, hence the love for Soul Music”, she admirable acquiesces.

Shantel erupted onto national music notice with her collaboration with DJ’s and her collaborations with DJ SK and Lady TT has created a sought after brand on the Alex club scene.

“Daily experiences and what happens around Shantel is the inspiration to the spontaneous songs”, she boasts about the improvisational lyricism she employs to her craft.

And as fact has it that the female voice carries many of today's biggest dance hits, there is no wonder why most revellers always flock to the stages she graces.

Raised in a Christian household, it follows that she the music bug caught her and not surprisingly we now find she transformed her choral music training into a poignant musical style that is entertaining while remaining rooted in cultured expression of emotion.

But the local music scene is brutal, and the obstacle course maneuverer by most female vocals within an electronic music influenced environment is intoxicating, and more of them tend to become mere poster girls for brands that espouse originality and poise.

The strange role of female vocal performers as second authors is threatening to most male musicians when faced with the necessity of collaborating with women for the sensuality that makes modern music palatable to fans.

Reflecting upon that experience a few years ago, she recalls how she became interested in forming a band.

This proved futile an attempt, as the contemporary climate has studied musicians working as freelancers.

“Challenges are forever there in life and the secret is to learn from our challenges. I’ve been to auditions and never selected. Been hustling for a recording deal and no doors open. And I still struggle to get gigs, yet in spite of all that I still have that undying passion for my music.”

A tinge of despondency I sense as she laments the plight of the creative minds who are sadly caught in the cycle of surviving in a capitalist environment.

“You will be surprised how many talented people you will find in offices. It is SURVIVAL VS TALENT IN SOUTH AFRICA,” and this social condition has sadly forced her to find employment outside of her creative skills set.

And evidence of some of the gender-based attitudes she had personally faced is explicit in her sentiments about the challenges faced by women performing music.

The demoralizing effect of such hypocrisies based on the assumption that women never play instruments which haunted the lives and careers of other exceptional women who had succeeded as professional musicians in spite of the accusations is what encourages her.

In our conversation she makes clear the importance of self-reliance in this industry and its necessity in life, a primary theme of her eternal life-song.

But the voice speaks for itself, of fragility and self-empowerment.

It can be that she also struggled to define herself in the industry, but as we converse more about soul music, dreams and the future of the industry, she confesses that “the future holds great opportunities for me I can tell”.

Shantel does shy away from the importance of consistent vocal training, which is the hallmark of any fine singer. To achieve the present subtleties and complete control over the mechanics of tone production take exhausting hours of exercising, which she admits to neglecting far too often. But with the current recording of her solo debut, more work is going into her vocal technique. Having had Jazz play an essential role during the formative phase in her singing career, we are sure to have a taste of multifaceted vocal spectrum with her upcoming offering. So, be on the lookout in all your hangout spots for all kinds of talent, because you might be grooving to Deep House Tunes by DJ SK95 and Shantel.