Hanging out with the great minds in Chimurenga’s office was a highlight of our SHOOK trip to South Africa. While there we encountered one of the finest writers in the land: Sandile Dikeni.

Sandile Dikeni’s golden voice is revered in South Africa, from the Indian Ocean to the South Atlantic. A man whose words invigorated a generation. Widely acclaimed for his rhythmically-rich and emotionally-charged wordplay, his skilful hand has penned innumerable poems, political discourses, and social commentaries. In 2005 he experienced a car crash that took the lives of four fellow passengers and left him with amnesia. Since the accident memories have returned and thankfully words still flow.

Our conversation began with how he came to rediscover his literary life. Taken by a friend to an event at Wits University, as the evening unwound Sandile was surprised by the amount of praise he was receiving from unfamiliar faces. Bemused by streams of compliments, Sandile played along enjoying the free food on offer. On the way home he told his friend how stupid the other guests were for treating him with such importance, and even claiming he was a poet. His friend’s response left him in disbelieve, “Sandile. You are a poet. You’ve published three books…”  Shocked, Sandile contacted his supposed publishers to request copies of his work. Upon their arrival, his own picture stared back at him from the cover of Soul Fire, “Then I believed I am a poet!”

Unpretentiously expressing his intellect, Sandile addresses subjects many shy away from. His words are notoriously laced with fire, fuelled from apartheid horrors including his grandmother’s necklacing, a lynching where a petrol-filled tyre is wedged around the target’s chest and arms, then set on fire. Aware himself that  certain times call for protest that goes beyond the page, his famed poem Guava Juice is a analogy for a petrol bomb, “Shake shake shake my comrade … shake that guava juice.”

Pre and post-1994, Sandile’s texts continue to inspire and inform on realities in his homeland of now or yesteryear. Full of life and a beaming smile, his charisma, good humour and unique way with words still stimulate those in his company. Possessing a love for his country yet distain for the notion of nations, Sandile introduces a poem he graced us with a recital of,  “it is my discourse on internationalism…”

Way back home

One day,
someday,
should some Freedom be registered and final
do not scoff, when I spit at the fruits of freedom
because maybe, my bongo
has the sound of a wail
and my voice, the anger of distance
and my movements
the estrangement of discontent
do not be angry

Do not be angry
when I can recall that samba from Brazil
or if the Mozambican nights of celebration
help the nightmares in my red
do not be angry

Some claim
in some April
some freedom threatened and came
But Hitler was born in April
and Lenin celebrate life in April
and so do I
but what are the boundaries?
Rosa Luxemburg once asked
and I wonder
the questions of a Namibian poet
How far is Washington from Pretoria?
And how near Bonn to Tokyo?
Therefore
What is the mileage between hunger and wealth
what is the distance between the contentment
of nation
and the discontent of a continent
how much of a black comedy, really,
is Africa, to the unity of nations?
How satisfying are potatoes as a relief measure
dished out from gun greased hands
Italy loves Somalia
this much we know
from Benito Mussolini
And Michael Jackson loves Zairian children
across the diaspora
How much love do we need to get serious?

Maybe if we do a tango in Lederhosen
and karate seven time a day
the G-Seven will give us G-Strings
to enter Hollywood
The most exciting act
since Zionists put Palestinians on the altar
and if we eat pasta
we will discover, the distance between
Italy and China is
as fragile as the love between
Great Britain and Northern Ireland
The lofty ideas of the Eiffel Tower
are as crazy
as the time bomb mentality in Big Ben,
as crazy
as the love between Napoleon and Nelson
How far a laugh is Mandela from X?
and before Y and Z seal us,
shall we not rather
ask the spirit of the Ghaza
to be our blood
and the blood of the Sioux and the Mayan
to be our spirit?
So that we drum it in the drums of Uhuru
when it bangs in the pangs
of a continent
Che might be dead,
but was his chair only in Cuba?
So, why do you wonder
when my freedom
only sings me an Internationale
because maybe,
just maybe,
that,
this,
is my distance from home.

[Poem used with author’s permission]