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Estranged Fruit
In my motherland, gay people are worth a pile of dry leaves. Their heads are cracked open like watermelons and their hair thrown everywhere like streamers and confetti. Their voices are drowned by the crows that pluck their eyes out for breakfast while good people do nothing. Kings order death and destruction upon them like pawns on an incomplete chessboard. I am of that branch but alien to the tree. I know for certain that my fruit is worth much and can sweeten the sour taste that many have come to know. I am off that tree but not of the ground it bestrides. I am love untarnished.
When in doubt, Love
Here we are again. Still forbidden. Still taboo and enveloped in fear. Our mouths are like sandpaper. No saliva housed in them. No fruit or bread through them. Our hunger goes beyond the physical. It is like an unsung psalm that exists only in the heavenlies. It has not even been fathomed by the cherubs and yet we feel it already. We crave what we shall never have. What have we if we have not wishfulness of thought? Dreams are the anchors that keep us here. So dream. Dream so that you may taste a crumb of the cake that could well be yours when you awake from your slumber. Hunger and thirst for a better you. Better to become a better version of who you are. Love every fibre of your being. Maybe then others will allow themselves to love you.
— Frank Malaba
Frank Malaba is an actor, playwright and a published poet. He was born in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe and currently resides in Cape Town, South Africa. He has performed on stage and television in both countries. He has a passion for using poetry, storytelling and theatre as a method of healing for both himself and others. His poetry has been presented both at home and abroad. Frank is currently developing a two-man play entitled “Broken Pathways” which will be touring internationally. In 2014 Frank was recognized by Mail & Guardian’s 200 Young South Africans as an Achiever in the category of Arts & Culture. View all posts by Frank Malaba
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