A Series Of Letters To Poets

To Poets Of A Millennial Cage

To us, the corruptible spawn of a vile voice once wombed with bilious rage, in our mothers bellows an eternal travail while our fathers mine soiled hearts for pennies.

Today we are vacant of souls.

Watch how we’ve become callous speed-readers of tragedies, soliloquizing in languages defeated by complacent rhetoric, spelling names of our future seeds from foreign manuals and work-rosters.

As we stand at close quarters with our shadows, in rooms hoarding memories and books gone stale with pornographic fonts, other bored youths are celebrating social grants fleeced from lumpen proles disguised as taxpayers.

Those peers who beat strange gods into boxes carried by Glen Dlamini wrecking havoc through suburbia, swore never to return to townships burning with sculpted corpses of other charred dissidents.

Many are now streaming slogans and odes on digital planes, singing praises to a fossilized civility, fifth generation prosodies lulling our nightmare at hand.

Yet, with is letter I ask if our castrated voices are forever hushed into doodles for tweaked consumers and woke patrons?

This letter is torn in plain view of cloned leaders and vaccinated parole officers warranted with tyranny against black flesh, and it is paling its lettering into broken eyes of worried pets huddled by lonely poets incarcerated.

It is blotting its final ink on lips of rehabilitated alcoholics, who are now addicts to algorithms and war archives.

What have we done, poets?

Deserve we not this repulsive disdain when we sold volumes of ancestral pain to crusader publishers and agents of showbiz puppetry of words and wits?

Fellow poets, are we not to be judged by the many marred faces staring back through tinted windows of fraudulent churches and our literary museums?

And as an exodus of our liquefied tongues is forced into pilgrimage towards rusty towns of our upbringing, locked downed with our worst family feuds and illegitimate siblings, what have we to say at this pandemic of disturbed comforts?

Would we die coldly touring our past adventures at an hour of peril?

Will we rewrite a short history of life in a millennial cage fashioned in metaphors of a cowardly retreat to servitude or, will we chisel introspective prophecies on our canvases, of distant portals from whence a new rebellion will be birthed?

A Method Of Isolationist Projections

These presented reimagined visual montages focus on art’s ability to (re)create spirit of a sociocultural site of events, and from this theoretical perspective the artist defines his video poems as both conservation and sustenance of continuity.

The artist defines any human habitat as a socio-cultural rhizome, possessing an intangible quality of a material site, perceived both physically and spiritually. 

And considering that re-purposing derelict spaces for art exhibitions is nothing new in the art world, it was easy for therefore for artist to locate his experimental pieces in the locale of a shack that was his home for over twenty years.

The shack, as site of human occupation and spatial localization is therefore identified as a physical reality, a mediators and medium of familial interactions , while at the same time bearing memories of struggles of ‘others’.

It possesses a distinguishable set of fundamental attributes: integrity, continuity, a touch of eternity, while being both a reality and an entity, and rhizome from which many interpretation stem and sprout..

Constructing a shack entails a process of assembling discarded elements, objects and re-assembling them into dimensions, forms and sculpted for human habitation. This process of reformation of the deformed is what the series of projections attempts to credit as the thread that runs through each video poem, each being a node in the growing stem from a place of origins.

Through filming images projected on the shack itself, a new dimension is added onto that cacophony of visual concepts at play, and re-projecting and filming the projections is another method of perfecting deformity, or exploring the sublime chaos.

An idealization of the shack might another layer of interpretative discourse that can be roused by the series, for by annexing this previously occupied ‘sculpture as location of present artistic output’, the artist is evolving a language.

And this language serves to both articulate the physical chaos of the shack as a deformity, in contrast to an aesthetic form taken when captured within frames of multiple projections.

Projections ( A Video Series)

The shack, as a type of residence, has always remained an epitome of depravity and a symbol of downtrodden hopes for shelter that many experience throughout life.

Its thin, corrugated steel walls are no means of isolation; they provide no astute privacy to the occupants and are crude in keeping one’s business concealed.

Sounds from the outside seep through, and as such, a myriad of lives can be related in the silence of the shack, secrets caged by eavesdropping tend to build each community of shack dweller.

With images of protesting residents of another squatter-camp projected on this shack of isolation during this global lockdown, this video poem is a meditative reflection on how isolation can make seeming exterior concerns of life cage and oppress those captured indoors during these times of forced introspection.

Projecting these incensed demonstrations by a populace in revolt, on walls of a single shack, becomes an installed representation with an express resolve to bear testimony to their righteous indignation with the status quo.

These projections become modes of externalizing internal conflicts, beyond acts of merely documenting conflict but remodeling abstractions that delve into elemental inner and outer worlds of man.

Volunteering confinement resembles a method of complicity with the tyrannical prospects of surveillance, but does one interrogate their confinement in such unprecedented times?

And while contradictions between isolation and incarceration might exist – this period conjures up all abhorrent issues of our decaying society, which in turn forces artists into an irreverent view of life’s continued pulsation.

Through this subtle layering of disparate images to create new visual representation of the soul’s conflict with itself, when faced with prospect of immortality through either violence of the state or the virus, a debilitating attempt at reconciliation with fate is achieved.

Any township with its ‘not-so-temporary’ structural decorum of shacks radiates a claustrophobic air of poverty, contorted dreams and unsavory dilemmas of morality for our survivalist needs. The innocuous inner turmoil experienced often by those who reside here, is eventually externalized in other forms of violence and abandonment.

For artists immersed in this existence, there tends to develop a personalized architecture of inner conflict, which then informs the art used to reconfigure all their creative output and responses to crisis.

These video poems are visual reclamation technique of exposing my isolation, as interpreted through creative methods my skill allows.

And as with all transient experiences, this chapter of projected rage, longing, solitudes and awe, remains a testament of a productive idleness in praise of confinement and introspective isolation.

About Fear: PROJECTIONS

Of the many emotions flooding my present state of being, I find fear to be most intriguing to tackle as any character lost on life’s forlorn stage or reality screen.

The expression of unadulterated dread, an existential fright that borders of numbness of a comatose somnambulist, as often a short-lived experience in performances, it is an overbearing weight collapsing to any soul.

Yet, like with those characters on stage or screen, these expressed liminal tensions often require mastering, demanding that a thespian possesses a lasting stigmata, that of a specific momentary scream or mutehood which becomes legend, short and often in cameo, this fear I feel is full of power and abandon.

I recall a fear possessing that character who was forced to rape a prostitute in a film titled SEVEN; which was haunting, because it’s undeniable that the actor’s performance bore more weight than what is often credited and lauded as spectacular.

But these performances also bear something reflective of that innate human scepter, or rather inextricably human responses to sources of fear – in that they often rely of mirroring our unknowable reactions to horrors immaterial.

Why The Series

This series of video poems emerged from this sense of immense fear; an uncanny surrender of a comatose sense of self-preservation; more so when seeing that I am not alone in the lonesome fate.

And as our many lives glare at the maw of an eternal abyss, humanity straying towards an extinction of hopes and crafty solutions, these films are my performative acceptance of isolation at hand.

What are reflections if not recollections of time past within the confines of a presence, alone, oppressed by a force immaculate and innocent, yet unbearably torturous to man.

The sheet, a symbol of such an anomalous nebulous enemy that suffocates any pulsating rhythm of life, this virus has become.

And through this act of invading projections of recalled memories, is a form of morphology, where I as the experiment in isolation attempt to piece through the veils into a reality discarded with the outside.

The squarely framed portal to a life of strife and protests, this window to other consequences of greed and rage as epitomes of human kindness, these are moments for which the struggling shadow beneath the covers is yearning, panting to reach and hold again.

A metaphor of the many souls caged with their demons not embraced, a story that mirrors the eternally solitary strife within all, translated in external efforts of defense, especially when assailed by an unknowable and daunting peril.

With these pieces, the artist articulates his own fears in a daunted final dance that piously accepts death and its finality.

Flame And Flare - A Video Poem

Flame And Flare

An acceptance of fallibility of sensory experiences of reality compelled the artist to ponder elemental micro-worlds that are seldom unobservable around us, hidden among webs and dust-mites, in rays leaking through corrugated steel..

Without employing microphotography techniques and merely utilizing the equipment at hand, the video poem is a portal into a view that boredom spawns in curios minds.

Flame And Flare is that exploration of dust specks dancing on a beam of light, in a micro-reality that is constantly shifting into unrepeatable organic hybrid shapes and visuals; plumes of smoke conjuring nebulous streams of time less chronicled.

Although cloaked in an un-silent silence that accentuates the minute trills of birds from inside a wind-stricken shack, the video poem becomes a meditation.

And as isolation makes room for introspection, our minds find time to observe beauty in the mundane, composing imageries that augur an inner freedom, detached from old notions of objective constructs of beauty in objects.

This piece therefore investigates methods of compositionality in relation to representation of these micro-realities of a yearned realization of the unrealized, captured and presented on a digital plane.

The Bible Series

Images By: Paul Zisiwe

Projection For Isolation

Although this series of projections tackles various aspects of fear, ‘fear of death’ and even possibly ‘fear of freedom’, it grapples extensively with notions of situationality - interrogating environmental influences on constructs of personal freedoms in relation to societal freedoms.

These video poems ponder how spatial presences sustain social constructs such as fear, isolation and freedom in the context of cultural posterity, questioning whether fear can be inter-generationally transmitted over and above being deposited on inanimate objects that symbolize our sense of freedom or lack thereof?

As an artist therefore, my work is tasked with first, the denunciation of personal confinements, and the erosion of inner freedoms being subtly programmed into our collective psyche.

Through tempering with visual representations of events, my work finds tenuous relationships between freedom and our innate disdain of prohibition of those socially constructed freedoms.

***

There also exists a fanatical preoccupation with elasticity of time in this series, which is no technique of disproving the immutability of time of course.

It is a process deconstructing ideational constellations built around irrefutable truths of existence, daring to harp on those unobserved complex ecologies of our observable reality without purporting to be ethnographical.

The Shack

Images By: Paul Zisiwe

Projection In Isolation

This video poem is an auto-didactic performance piece, executed in the confines of a shack where the artist contemplates the vices and virtues of isolation.

At moments when isolation seemingly oppresses all sense of being, man always finds the serene often unpleasant. And how does one deal with ‘orders of confinement? Is isolation possible in company of memories peopled by a collective fear, an existential dread of the unknowable futures?

Why Projections

The pandemic has undeniably provided humanity an opportunity for reflection, and dire projections for our collective future if we continue the plunder and pillage of the planet remain unavoidable.

As a proverbial Rite Of Passage, the period also affords a silence that is unprecedented for many of us, a semblance of calm for pondering lessons that we have otherwise ignored.

Having adapted to the disruption of my everyday routines, this absence of formless hollering of pedestrians and machines, I find my inner voices more articulated without the clutter of monotonous everyday existence.

With abundant time to surf the web for art and films, I am confronted by an ever-growing number of artists and filmmakers focusing on the interrelationship between their media and film/video, with the intention of expanding the experience and potential of both.

Some of the experiments with the projected image in installation and sculptural contexts continue to reveal that the parameters and possibilities of this relationship also have deep psychological and emotional meaning.

And working from a time-based medium of video myself, I have found that approaching notions of presentation of my work quite challenging, in that often gallery spaces are traditionally allocated static 2-dimensional art, without motion and other attributes of dynamism.

I am always confronted by questions of dismantling of linear perspective and notions of a fixed position for the viewer has to take in response to artworks being perceived.

I use the word ‘perceive’, which I find much more holistic in the sense of encapsulating the experience of being ‘arrested by the beauty of art’.

It implies that as dependent of all sensory portals allocated the human physiognomy.

Admittedly, this phenomenological experience my moving images in relationship to architectural space of a shack is quite an enticing idea, where the shack, being my gallery space, is transformed into a perceptual field for more creative output.

My fascination with the screen is part impetus of course, and understanding the limitations and artificiality of projections by their very nature, but another curiosity about the projections is the method of experiments with multiple perspectives.

As I observe those occasional movements and slow tempo of the original video poem morphing and mutating with each new projection, I often ask myself if the three projections in the series are engaged in a sort of dialogue.

The timing of this lockdown is therefore quite unusually germane, because of the extensive crossover research it has allowed me regarding the series which in itself a hybrid cognitive project that has many more layers to shed.

Therefore, this series has become a type of controlled re-visitation of memory, yielding variant vantage points with no inkling of similitude.

They also project their own conflict with the linearity of time, while allowing me to project my own method of remembering dis-membered time.

A Series Of Letters To Poets

To Common Man

How long will we glare at posterity fumble, and history forget all behind a common veil of loveless exchanges?

Will poetry be a sword spiked with fragrances of buried roses and charms of an age when defenses could have been mounted but neglected?

Now, we starve with book smelling of nostalgic thoughts of philosophers and prophets, those who told of dooms and pleasures of humanity in its final spectacle.

They spoke what you remember, and remembering how once you asked of me to remember you… today I ask: Do you remember yourself, Common Man.

When Seven poets spoke love bells at Market Theatre, novice wordsmiths with paths diverging at fates will… many, we watched and those verses of young rebellion spawned a community.

That was then, when poets were brethren, always found off guard and spelling spells on either walls or paper, musos with blown chords howling among us, the silent observers at bay couched in corners and dark theatres.

I once saw you once at Worker’s Library drooling on a sheet of wrinkled paper, a poem seeping through a worn microphone, among turbans and colorful scarfs – words that spoke with a strangely vulgar innocence.

That was when Newtown was an oasis, Mak Manaka sliding through fluid crowds with a sleuth demeanor that was art in motion, crutched and each stride a song accompanied by bold words.

What became of that harem of rusty poets crowded in art stalls, hoarding memories of mundane exhibitions, of joy, and pains and art and more art?

Never thought time would fold its palm on it all, and as many nostalgics mourn, I beg, still that mind brother, as time has boiled your skin pale in the name of libation for the dying in you.

And at times, when we watch as many make a factotum of your crafty sorrow, plied with township humor brazen with thirst and sweat, we will forgot your wits, dusty with outdated books by revolutionaries and villains.

But remember, you oiled podiums for tortured messiahs, Denis Brutus and other Botsotso clad avengers of truth who spoke with pride when gentrified art was blossoming in decorated restaurants - you were there, and awakened a wounded few for a fight that persists, as time watches you watch, together wondering.

Khahliso Matela 

17/04/202

Kokosi

Locked Down Poem Three

An epistle of deranged truths scathing the person-cell with effervescent neuroses, claims all creation sacrificed on alters of glass screens and pottery psalms as collateral damage for a crude cause for survival.

Only a dirge fumbled like cursed slogans would hold their names unforgotten, like burnt fragments stuck on chimney walls with ashen bones of discarded experiments of this existence.

And as life is but an experiment, one wonders whose observance and skill records these anomalies of castaways from an abandoned heaven?

Remnants of dissidence are sizzling with acid burning stomachs, and all frivolities of individualism are shattering on floors as violence is roomed with rogues.

Mouths of children are dried by screams, mothers watch with clotted lids as fathers piss gold and blood after binges for sorry numbness.

After game play with gun-trotting avatars, siblings close in on one another with bread knives and mirror shards.

Stepparents sing holographic tutorials from digital nursery encampments, as static and baby noise breathes a ravenous draft on a hung-over mankind’s façade.

Yet another bout of fists and terror will ring across the night silence, as the rerun of horrors slants with the setting sun over a locked down platoon of dying combatants, and victims.

Foul drains will let off their steam over the township, with thick smog and colorful giggles before we face secret rooms where many will wish tomorrow away, with all decadence of those flourishing through the misery of others.

But, the sun will rise over Armageddon for many a cold corpse, dread and hunger pumping air and resolve to fight yet again.

And so will this spurious dream collapse, gain footing and defenestrate into an abyss of lost things; only to be found and dusted off immaculately for new dreams.

Locked Down Poem Two

How exogenous our laments unto powers assailing us, at this dawn of a sonorous prison – clammy walled with wails and hymns.

Loud music raging through windows and slamming doors praying that man never exits his dreams, towards a hell of his making and other paralyzed fountains.

Grave men are giving orders to ludicrous totems, hunger monuments decorated like graves of soldiers who died loveless; children colliding in alleyways of shanty sections of broken neighborhoods, their every strut is for keeps because it could be their last.

Mountains of food parcels are rotting in the waning heat of summer, tented among hobos with rowdy eyes bloated by addiction and maddening cravings; mothers to some, whipped and foaming in their mourning wail for bread and stale milk.

Venerated stalwarts dress in flags and momentary costumes of war, exalting anthems and seemingly braving the storm of a pandemic chipping our sanity from our dead hopes.

What excised promises, botched plans aimed at our failing graces holding our face to a mirror that is melting down corporate sewers?

Who is bracing for the brutal force of time’s fist on our rabid chests infected with prayer and news?

Locked Down Poem

Cooing our misgiving and quarrel, three pigeons

Perched on a wobbly wire electrifying shacks sing

Misty musings in the clasping chill of early winter.

A joint in hand and fury at walls breathing,

Here a poem about quarantined days rots,

Flaking into a stale mood and

Recollections marooned

In empty chambers of a self-flagellating heart.

Mother’s Memories

As years pass and age simmers with recollections of time past, mother sits and reminisces about joys of childhood, challenges of youth and pains of matrimony.

This video diary is a deposit of harshly planted sorrow, a document telling her children and grandchildren, a story that stands to inform traumas of future generations.

Be these filtered and adulterated memories, cloaked in mystery of mother’s hidden heart, her version of life deserves recollection and for her children’s minds to marvels at her silhouetted face of wisdom.

Filmed during an unnervingly introspective time of a global Covid-19 lockdown, this seemingly disinterested conversation begins a series that will delve into Evelyn Zisiwe’s life, executed with a passionately staunch belief that each human deserves their story told to a million ears that could choose to hear or ignore.

Nuwe Kasie, Ou Kasie - A Khahliso Matela Video Poem

Dead Dog - A Photo Series

Images By: Khahliso Matela

A Series Of Letters To Poets

To Mme Boitumelo Mofokeng

How winter’s chill makes one recall the warmth of the womb – Mother, it is cold in there in shadowy recesses of our Freedom’s resolve.

This photograph clad in ashamed light is telling how we are now cowering among garbage piles of our intellects and talents, us - those who voiced a million perils to yet come to pass.

At freedom’s birth we marveled an unknown joy with mothers with scars of lost fathers; bloodlines sundered by regimented cowards with rifles for might. And today, seedlings of a deranged victory stand lonely in cramped rooms dreaming that the boot of poverty would crush our jaws once and for all. But how did we become so suicidal?

Mother, is Freedom’s child a vagabond who scurries away from an invisible enemy at the gates?

You once read Nkululeko, My Child in a vacant cathedral with mosaic and bullet riddled windows staring t the echoes of your voice and I pondered travails of your birthing Freedom, guided by midwifery of a sacred poetess, Mme Miriam Tladi

But did Nkululeko, your child make you proud among barren maids and wives of the struggle? Among other orphans abandoned in high-rise buildings and schools of tyranny, did your Freedom’s stride move swiftly towards doom and over-priced melancholy?

Mme, I had a dream of Soweto skyline swept beneath mine-dump sludge and toppled shattered skyscapers swimming in torrents flowing down Riverlea side.

Screams like slogans of terrified bait muffled by rancid bellowing of a raging stream, and that dream mother was a true abyss.

Today, silent streets that boiled with black rage stand scanty and mute, save for the radio howling behind shut windows and drawn drapes of a people in fear of weaponized fevers and coughs.

Today, a wild god coughed and earth burned its lungs, watching elderly nomads departs life in solitude more painful than birth. Today, as April approaches, the free are muddling idioms to ease their fear of death, and in their unkempt residences they roam despotic mindscapes of fictional apocalypses brewing on TV.

Mother, would you leave us to fend for other shackles after such plunder of peacetime? Does our will expose cowards we have become in the face of direst confrontation? How would we call ourselves your seed, if we cower beneath humming engines to hide from the freezing drafts of nuclear winters of our making? Do our psalms and poems honor our revolt?

And yes, for those few that dare to rebel for the sanctuary of memories at danger, what shelter is there before their borrowed gifts are consumed by industrial fires?

Mother, did you stare into our grave and mutter warnings for the after-life?

Did Freedom neglect or forget all foul aims of this world for any seed born black as night?

From Khahliso Matela

08/042020

Kokosi

Sons Of A Father

Seven Selves - A Photo Series

Images By: Tebogo Mgodoyi

Sounds Of Protest – A Observation Of A Phenomenon

Sounds Of Protest – A Observation Of A Phenomenon

Engaging with a space seething with tension, the video poem is an experiment at voyeuristic observation of events as they are executed and perceived in tempered time, where an emphasis on temporality versus spaciality takes precedence. One wonders if the act of observing is a way of altering that which is being observed; and as an inquisitive mind I find that true separation from that which is observed is near impossible. How does the event relate to my psychic defenses?

These sounds of muffled sloganeering and sirens embody the inaudibility of mysteries wedged between the normal decibels our ears are designed to perceive. This is a metaphor positing that more often the screams of the disparate are seldom heard in their true tone of rage, but filtered by separation of forces comprised of those in power and those confronting power.

If We Must Die - A Poem By Claude McKay As Interpreted By Khahliso Matela

Locked Poem

In my strange and withdrawn existence

Pulses a riddle

Authorized by light and

Confirmed by darkly truths.

I ponder such things, the dreary and

Unmourned

Secrets we share

With gods we doubt.

During such nocturnal expeditions,

I feel pangs of thunderbolt gloom,

A precocious cynic springing in me, saying

ALL THIS DEATH IS PROOF THAT WE LIVE.

The inescapable futility of changing minds

Steeped in a dependence on fallacies is but

To follow the audacity of the fearful.

And it’s folly to find solace in vengeance,

To dwell in shadows of day-dreamt revenge.

Masakeng - A Photo Series

Images By; Khahliso Matela

A Ride From Red Mountain

A Ride From Red Mountain

As our souls merge at this expanse

Exiting the chambers and cathedrals of our lies

Fog patches climb the cold dream

A bleeding sky covering mountains.

Jenny And Her Foal - 8 Images

Images By: Paul Zisiwe

A Ride To Red Mountain - A Khahliso Matela Video Poem

A Ride To Red Mountain

There cannot be truly what is inactive art, for how wondrous a task it is to wield spears at ideas cemented in stolen blood?

So, could the act of making cinema be considered an auto-didactic phenomenon?

A Series Of Letters To Poets.

To Lesego Rampolokeng

Bavino, heard you are ailing alone among scholars and excavators of your mind.  Not certain if speech is still pinning murals on chests of many who want hole to breath through. At times one finds windows in other minds, through you’re a billion slovenly sights I have witnessed. At times a mirror with a thousand deformities peering back at me; I still bear anguish at darkest heart that seems to fold into time’s brave brace.

Remember that journey up and down the word-tracks, when you introduced me to Ingoapele Madingoane’s stranded methods of feeling pain of a million, many memories leave my mind embroiled in esoteric conversations with spirits of Mafika Gwala and Sandile Dikeni.

I was a filmmaker then, not certain what I have become now, since those days slithered along muddy trails to meet Vonani Bila, mazes on the foothills of KZN, what urgent circumstances we chanced to render the voices of poet to record.

And finding babMafika Gwala, twitching with excited exasperation at the late youths willing to kneel at his lap.

Tattooed to my brain are contorted lisps of scathing words, those peppered rebukes to a nation stuffed with swine fat, readied for the stake.

Those days are skeletal remains of a distressed nostalgic, faced with another form of travel in the face of uncertain skies.

And what a mad team of explorers of storyland you gathered around your oratory, milking time with humble hands in the company of souls meant to herd memory into future wastelands.

And today, pondering the dystopic, serial misconducts of the mind ensue and an unspeakable dread sledges through my cranium, slow and ominous like shadow figures in a flame lit hut.

Ungovernable times have overstepped the gates of hell, and humanity is boiling in furnaces of its making, leprous and gurgling prayers to absent heavens.

Medical charlatans have devised yet another evil, a world cornered by a slovenly agenda concocted by schizophrenic asylum administrators with sachets of more potent sedatives than religion.

Kgafela’s satirical discourse about the honorable origins of indigenous vulgarity, that guffaw shared among kindred wordsmiths – I stood dazed by lens flairs and bright shards of breaking gems from your minds in a dance.

When you and Makhafula reminisced about Ntate Wally Serote and Ntate Sipho Sepamla, how time folded as though biblical commandment were being rewritten in kasie lingo.

That excursion through poetics of a nation in tatters still haunt us all, those who face the daunting task of un-forgetting. I wonder how many will get off that ride unfazed, because the nauseating climate of a new decade is on a ghost train.

But these ghosts are my reflection blurred by a famine of resistance, silhouettes strung to an uncanny puppeteer pent of trampling civility to barbarity.

Are you awakening again for a final bow with those left in the winds of a literary bazaar? Who would you collapse first among these self-flagellating, peacekeeping proselytes of palatable parables?

Or have we all become our own worst enemy, awaiting an opportune disaster to allow us to eat ourselves by ourselves?

From Khahliso Matela

01/04/2020

Kokosi

The Sun Does Set.

Images By: Paul Zisiwe