Tuesday, April 21, 2015


Over a decade since burning tires wreaked havoc on human life
As South Africa chanted and fought in a ghastly but civil strife
Years ago the world sealed its lips and blocked ears with covered eyes
While the down trodden threw off the yoke of oppression and its ties
It was justified then, not now
It is unjustified when if not now

As the poem rolls and its author taps each word of truth South Africa hurts
Not because the yoke is back as a jarring joke but because of delayed outbursts
Fellow Africans who traversed the charred continent of war came seeking the spoils
They arrived, they rejoiced, they saw, they stayed and more came as Africa boils
Survivors of the yoke
Felt the agony of the poke

Prodded by the exodus and influx to recall their own decades of political asylum
Those of the yester years yoke felt it as an intrusion of overstaying friends of whilom
As Africa gave birth to more life and death, the exodus and the influx married
The terrains of South Africa filled to bursting stretches and intolerance scurried
Threat and breath colluded
The peace of the air was polluted

Out came the burning tires in threats and deeds to wreak havoc on harmless souls
The burning coals of revolt by peasants against feudal lords found hands of ghouls
South Africa hosted cries and wails, the hurrying and scurrying of humans fleeing terror
Violence reminiscent of the stolen struggle of suffering masses transformed good to horror
Those that harmed the most knew not why
Those that hurt the most knew not why

To blame the lame is to tame the brave when the bravery granary is running to depletion
Yet to fear to name the lame in blame is to revive the horrors that ought to be in deletion
The failure of leadership and the flaws of the human spirit caused simpletons to maim
The straying flock in disarray lost the stewardship of the slovenly shepherds without aim
The innocent suffered, the faultless died
The indolent led too late, the harmless died!

By Andrew Sesinyi
April 21, 2015

Thursday, May 23, 2013


Quite and tranquil even when in disquiet
Calm though not cold, stern like twilight
Lady Olebile seemed like seams of  silence
Yet therein, beneath she bequethed resilience

To serve Lady Olebile was to surf in placid waves
She talked in tender tones even to nasty knaves
As I grew to brew my own brand of whom she addressed
I every time discovered such a cozy cover of  redress

Soft spoken her voice to us servants soothed us into service
For none left nothing undone to harm her with disservice
Every son's mother and every daughter's mother plus a friend
Soon we were good readers of her traits for which we got treats

I recall no absence of mirth when around her maternal spread
She never tried to be good but made good and that was our bread
We flew planes and drove cars, walked paths and lived lives
Never afraid of tongue lashes or cracking whips with soul hives

All I want to remember is what I recall and it all seems so calm
Her deamenour that assured and built for us nets of zero harm
As we served the lady who became Lady Olebile and remained so
I bid her good repose with regret that all these i never told her so

Goodbye Lady Olebile!
You were our lady too....

Personal tribute from your former servant: Andrew Sesinyi
May 21, 2013

Monday, March 12, 2012

Corruption Rock and Roll

Come marvel at my dance sequence
Come see me move and be witness
Be not amazed though to see no groove
Dancing emotions have no motions to move....

I am dancing in distress to buttress stress
I have poverty of desired buttons to press
Corruption cripples my motivation to move
I am seeking ways for my rhythm to improve

When I get the rhythm I shall beg steal and borrow
Or beg to borrow before I steal into my burrow
Honesty like thirst punishes the throat of the parched
With dishonesty the bad are assured of roofs thatched

My dance is now a trance as rhythm escapes my style
My motions are as right as a winter roof with missing tile
I am not chasing the winning prize of honour or integrity
Mine is a mining mode not to mend but corrupt in parity

I fear the wrath of the Lord but hear hunger pangs louder
Those that ride the groovy gravy train are colder and bolder
Honesty like brakes oppose motion and defeats progress
Forces of evil and powers of comfort are always in congress

My soul is free and my spirit pure but my vault is empty
My morals are strong but guarded by a weakened sentry
For as goodness chooses my bosom as its grand abode
Material life plays only sorry tunes that  misery forebode

My house of hope and honour has a weakened foundation
Vocal cords that sung sweet melodies are in pathetic condition
I have gained tonnes of torment and lost my tones for parody
My previous floods of confidence are themselves sheer comedy

I am the serpent that goads you to trouble and misfortune
Trust me at your peril for there is no similar print of fortune
I am a representative of tentative evil sprouting from good
I am a dispirited devil son of good masquerading with a hood.

My story is a fake furrow dug in the wetness of former dry land
As true as a fake is real for it is forked out of beings of same brand
My cry is to decry corruption for some authority to issue a decree
That the corrupt must be made to burn in the fires of their final degree.

By Andrew Onalenna Sesinyi
March 10, 2012.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012


Its the new year with the yeast that ferments it into old
The sights, sounds and scenes of similar years stay bold
Making mild the mood of merriment reminiscent of malt
For the year 2012 is brewed in cauldrons that curse salt
My hope for new is but a forlorn hope as the new brew boils
All is old in the new and so are the sinews that drive my toils

Its not the boredom that bears these notes but the dullness of same
Life rolls and rile even the meek to brew wildness even among the tame
Same is similar to insipid dishes of recipes written by wrathful writers
It dampens even the daunting doom as would a requiem to bull fighters
That stillness of time and tide is an untold tale of turpitude in decline
Its a silence of tuneless songs unsung by composers driven into decline

Ive wishes of a billion spikes pointed piercingly at the fabric of the undone
Pins and pincers in readiness to dig into the tapestry and order it redone
Yet Im stuck in the mud and puddles of ponds watered by rains of ineptitude
My vocal cords are cobbled and coddled in haphazard hides of in-exactitude 
For the voice of protest has petered out drowned by derelict dams of inertia
Expression outdone by repression my tone meanders as if in a shrub of acacia

Yes, ponder asunder all arms akimbo to wonder what this grief is a song of
Yet you would not yawn in boredom if you deciphered the pain of the pay off
Its about what I do not to do and what I do not do when I ought to do that does it
The paradox of pay and performance amid poverty of paths that bear produce
The irony of unstructured structures and disorganized guided tours of toil
Where no input mothers output and fires of the hearth have pots of amber to boil

By Andrew Sesinyi
Timeless and dateless for a purpose...

Monday, December 12, 2011

The next best thing after Christmas, is Christmas.
This is what I want to remember every Christmas...a story I listened to starry eyed and blissfully savouring it with the innocence of the child that I was. I have since lost my innocence. I am a sinner with a host of sins; but I never lost the appetite for the story, nor did I forget its message: a reminder of what Christmas is all about. It is a time to glorify the Lord; and thank him for the best present he gave us on this day and the blessings thereafter, which most times we fail to notice and believe ourselves unlucky or cursed. It is a time for goodwill. This is the story as told to me by my grandmother and the priests and as Iread it in the Bible:

Jesus was born in the town of Bethlehem in Judaea during the time when Herod was king. Soon afterwards, some men who studied the stars came from the east to Jerusalem and asked, 'Where is the baby born to be the king of the Jews? We saw his star when it came up in the east, and we have come to worship him." 
When King Herod heard about this, he was very upset, and so was everyone else in Jerusalem. He called together all the chief priests and the teachers of the law and asked them, "Where will the Messiah be born?"
"In the town of Bethlehem is Judaea," they answered. "For this is what the prophet wrote:
""Bethlehem in the land of Judah, you are by no means the least of the leading cities of Judah; for from you will come a leader who will guide my people Israel."" 
So Herod called the visitors from the east to a secret meeting and found out from them the exact time the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem with these instructions:
"Go and make a careful search for the child, and when you find him, let me know, so that I too may go and worship him."
And so they left, and on their way they saw the same star they had seen in the east. When they saw it, how happy they were, what joy was theirs! It went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was. They went into the house, and when they saw the child with his mother Mary, they knelt down and worshipped him. They brought out their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, and presented them to him.
Then they returned to their country by another road, since God had warned them in a dream not to go back to Herod....Joseph ...took the child and his mother, and left during the night for Egypt, where he stayed until Herod died, an angel of the Lord appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, "Get up, take the child and his mother, and go back to the land of Israel, because those who tried to kill the child are dead." So Joseph got up, took the child and his mother, and went back to Israel.
But when Joseph heard that Archelaus had succeeded his father Herod as king of Judaea, he was afraid to go there. He was given more instructions in a dream, so he went to the province of Galilee and made his home in a town named Nazareth. And so what the prophets had said came true. "He will be called a Nazarene."]

This is the word of the Lord!
Thanks be to God!

Friday, August 19, 2011


 "Despite his ardent role as a political activist, Quett Masire had basically been a simple man all his life. In many ways he was a difficult, if not complex character to judge. He could be jovial and exuberant at one moment, and placid to reserved in another. Despite these apparent mood swings, Quett Masire enjoyed company tremendously and could be generous with time for that. Notwithstanding this generosity with company, Sir Ketumile was a punctilious slave-driver and a stingy accountant of every second in a day. Enjoying the lassitude of conversation as he did, Quett Masire made up for lost time through a over-taxing work schedule that overwhelmed virtually every aide in his entourage. Few people in leadership, in my view were so driven by notions of duty and honour as Sir Ketumile was. During the 1980 trip to Europe all our days of the five-week tour began and ended in the Presidential Suite. Quett Masire was as punctilious as he was fastidious on matters of time and detail. His Permanent Secretary and Chief of Staff was a man inherited from the Seretse Khama days, Mr Phillip Steenkamp who accompanied him on the trip. This tall Afrikaner man was as resolute in his work and behaviour as he could be abrasive and uncouth. That was perhaps what his superiors appreciated in him; what mortified some Cabinet Members and Senior officials, mollified objective critics, enthralled interested observers and awed most subordinates. He was an astute officer who spoke his mind. That was what endeared him to Quett Masire.

Some of us in the delegation thought Quett Masire needed a little grooming here and there as President but we were all amazed at his quick adaptation to the big office. He impressed the European Government and business personalities with his pragmatism, economic repertoire and mastery of the English language.

A factor that kept on nagging me throughout the trip as I watched Quett Masire then was what I believed was his lack of presidential decorum; a close friend commented though that my apprehensions arose from the fact that we wanted to transplant Sir Seretse Khama’s anglophile type of character into Quett Masire’s Spartan characteristics. To be fair to Sir Ketumile, despite his rather capricious excursions of character, he was a man of reputable equanimity where astute officialdom was imperative.

My criticism of my president were triggered by instances in Europe in 1980, where he would for instance, drift away from the entourage of host escorts to look at something or the other; or race off to greet someone that he fancied speaking to. I also believed that he exhibited a callous disregard for his personal safety on many occasions, endangering in the process the safety of his host protectors and those of his bodyguards. One such occasion that I recall was when we viewed the city of Belgrade from atop a cliff and Quett Masire had to move towards the very end of the precipice, in order to look down. One of the Yugoslav security guards, a young fellow, stepped in between the Botswana president and the thin line of concrete separating him from his charge and a long drop to what would be the guard's inevitable death. Quett Masire turned around to face the rest of the delegation, almost knocking the guard off balance. I held my breath in suppressed horror. Such incidents were not representative of Quett Masire’s fatherly disposition but he was uncannily given to infantile physical exuberance at times.

Harsh as my judgment was of the supercilious attitude of Sir Ketumile towards his own personal safety, my apprehensions were corroborated by the Yugoslav security guard who astraddle the lofty zones of safety and a a possible plunge to death. I boldly but surreptitiously asked him how he felt. What he told me touched my heart. Yugoslavia was a communist state then. Disgrace to the nation came in many forms. Obeisance was an ubiquitous characteristic of service. The guard said to me:-

"I'd rather lose my life protecting your president because then my family would be spared and protected. But if I live and he plunges to his death, I may as well be dead for all that would happen to me and my family."

Quett Masire never heard this and apparently never quite discerned anything wrong. If he did, he kept it very much to himself. Nonetheless, the Quett Masire that I knew then and that I was to be privileged to know more later, would never have hurt a fly.

I used to observe that despite admitting to having "weak legs" Quett Masire was given to frenetic physical movements, including sharp turns often as rounded as 360 degree motions, with the speed and dexterity of a fox in its prime. He could dart around his surroundings until his delegation and security guards completely lost their bearings and constantly missed where the man was. In later years, I was to quietly interprete this behaviour as a desire to break free from his self-imposed prison. The man had been guarded since independence in 1966 as a Vice President. He was to remain under protective custody even in retirement. Sir Ketumile was born free and every idiosyncrasy of his was a cry for freedom.

On one occasion, we were visiting a snowy area of Norway called Little Hammer (English version) when Quett Masire alighted from the luxury bus we were using, soon after the bus had stopped. His charges did not see the man getting out of the bus although they were sitting next to him and even having constant conversation with the president. Quett Masire started moving towards the direction of a frozen lake. Fortunately, his Botswana tropical climate leather shoes with their slippery sole and heel deterred and slowed his movements. He nearly fell but instead of stopping, kept on wobbling until his charges caught up with him and diverted him from the lake.

Quett did not appear bothered by the little episode that could have plunged him into icy cold waters had he stepped on the thin snow covering the lake. The president was saved from the drama. There was to be a lesser but dramatic episode shortly thereafter. His Botswana security guards were destined for a less perilous but more hilarious snow experience when we got to our hotel. Despite advice from our hosts, few members of the Botswana delegation had bought or brought the rubber-soled shoes that had been recommended for the snowy area of Norway. As the vehicles stopped in front of the hotel, the alert and committed Botswana Security guards spilled out of their cars. One of them rushed forward towards the presidential limousine. The first guard slipped and fell on his back in the snow, legs up in the air, exhibiting well polished black shoes. We roared with laughter as the embarrassed security officer clawed the air in thwarted attempts to stand up. He looked like a capsized giant beetle. His immediate senior reprimanded him in Setswana and then sped towards the president. A few steps forward the second guard went down too. The most senior guard watched the goings on with hands on his hips, his head shaking disapprovingly and then angrily marched past his men to personally take over the supervision of the presidential security. As fate would have it, the most senior guard slipped and fell dramatically too.

Some of the Norwegian authorities took pictures but I confess that I could not take any pictures of these incidents because I was in tears. There was to be a poignant end to this episode.

The First Lady of Botswana Mrs Gladys Masire, later Lady Olebile Masire, who was emerging from her car slowly and carefully, not to mention circumspectedly, watched this whole episode in rapt attention. She stopped her movements and sitting back into the car, Mrs Masire brushed her hands together in a traditional symbol of despondency and said:-

"Jaanong banna ba security ba ole hela botlhe." (All our security guards have now fallen).

In Europe, Quett Masire adorned the cloak of a shrewd salesperson and sold SADC as if it were his very own invention. What you could rely on Quett Masire to do during those days and to do with near perfection, it was his ability and agility to present a concept, nurture it, defend and sustain it. The man had an incredible memory capacity, an ability to grasp issues quickly and an inexhaustible reservoir of vocabulary. Sir Ketumile’s maiden trip to Europe (as president) was highly successful, taking us as it did through the ethereal beauty of European landscape, the dulcet classical music of Ceausescu’s Romania and Tito’s Yugoslavia and right through the often sardonic expressions of Eurocentric sceptics."

……… …… …… ….. …… ….


The following is an extract from my manuscript, Corridors of Power, a factual reflection of my experiences whilst working for political figures. The manuscript is under consideration for publication. I just felt like sharing this extract.

My first intimate contact with Sir Ketumile Masire, the man who was to become President of Botswana for 19 years, was in 1980 when as Vice President he abruptly cut his trip to the people's Republic of China due to the terminal illness of his predecessor Sir Seretse Khama. I was a senior journalist then with the Government Department of Information and Broadcasting working for Radio Botswana and the Daily News. Sir Seretse Khama had just returned from London where he had gone for treatment but was returned by his doctors so that he "could die peacefully among his people." The charismatic founder President of the former British colony was dying of cancer.

I first interviewed Vice President Masire when he was known then by his unique but popular first name of Quett, before he changed his title to Sir Ketumile Masire later when he was bestowed the British Knighthood by Queen Elizabeth II. Quett, as he was popularly known then, was regarded nationally as the moneyman, being the Minister of Finance and Development Planning. The man's trademark was his high pitched laughter which echoed around the corridors of every building he occupied and announced him at every occasion. It was an idiosyncrasy that was to become part and parcel of his personality and eventually a cherished sound among his supporters and compatriots.

The intention of the interview was to get answers to the burning questions in the minds of every concerned citizen of Botswana-, which was virtually every one. Now that the nation of this fledgling democracy, was about to lose the only president that they had known, what was going to happen to the leadership of the country? Would Vice President Masire take over automatically? It was common knowledge then that the rather reticent Quett Masire had not shown any ambitions to ascend to the presidency of the country. Masire was believed to be reluctant to become captain of this peaceful but politically and economically fragile southern African state. We posed the questions to Quett Masire. As was always the case, we quickly realised that what Quett Masire lacked in physical stature, he made up for in his remarkable gift of repartee. Admittedly, at first contact before and during his presidency, and even afterwards, one did not have to be Quett Masire’s puppet to discern his obvious superior intellect. His mastery of both the English language and the national language, Setswana, made him a versatile orator and slippery maestro of intellectual gymnastics.

Quett Masire ensured that the bulk of the interview concentrated on his trip to China. The Chinese culture and their work ethic, in particular, had visibly impressed him. I was with colleagues Moreri Gabakgore and Monty Letshwiti when he told us:-

"If I had my way, I would take the entire nation of Botswana to China for them to see how hard working the Chinese are. They have ploughed every where, even on mountain tops."

But would he become President?

As I was to later realise, among Quett Masire’s best personal traits were loyalty to colleagues, friends, the common cause, staunch loyalty to the country, unshakeable belief in free exchange of views and sensitivity. In later years though, the sensitivity trait was to be eroded significantly, most probably due to the apparent invincibility of his political party at the polls and the resultant complaisance of the ruling party.

It was a well known fact that Quett Masire loved Sir Seretse Khama as a friend and colleague as much as he respected the man as president and leader of their political party. Although Quett Masire knew very well that Sir Seretse was dying, he felt it unpalatable to go public with that acceptance. He did not want to play God. Masire's sensitivity also allowed him to perceive how the conservative Botswana nation would regard his statements at the deathbed of their president. He would not speculate on the leadership of the country but he put it in such a way that the journalists who interviewed him left with a story about a hardworking China that could be a model for the nascent workforce of Botswana. As far as Quett was concerned, there was a president in Office. He might have been lying terminally ill at State House but the man was still in Office.

Would he Quett Masire take over as President in the event that Sir Seretse died? I have never forgotten the glint in Masire's eyes when I posed that question to him. Although I was shaken to the core, it was not a malevolent look and neither was it a look of anger. He had the look of a wounded lion. He obviously disapproved of what he probably regarded as my intransigence and lack of sensitivity. One of his other good traits, was the ability to restrain his anger in the presence of subordinates, or in his cultural perspective, children. I do not recall exactly what Quett Masire said but young and obstinate as we were then, we left his office feeling guilty that we had asked the questions that our journalistic training allowed us to ask. The second most powerful man in the land had not subjected us to official harassment and yet we felt remorseful. We went to our newsrooms and wrote the story about China.

A few days later, Sir Seretse Khama died peacefully at his official residence. We learnt that he had called his best friend and right hand man, Quett Masire, just before he died, and told him:-

"I have done my part. The rest is left to you."

It was not until years later after retirement as President that Quett Masire wrote in his book entitled: “VERY BRAVE OR VERY FOOLISH? Memoirs of an African Democrat.” :

“I was a reluctant politician. If I had my way, I would not have become a politician in the 1960s, but I felt I had to do it because there was a need. In 1980, if people had felt someone else should be president, I would have given him, or her, my full support…when I arrived at the airport in Gaborone , having been recalled from a visit to China, two officials told me that he [Sir Seretse Khama] was dying. They pleaded that if I was asked to succeed him, I shouldn’t say no. Many people, including members of the opposition parties, began coming to me to urge me to accept the role if I were asked.”

I have been to the State House on several occasions during the tenure of the presidency of Sir Ketumile Masire, and even during the service of his successors. It had emblazoned itself in my mind as a tribute to the democratic sanity of Botswana that successors to Sir Seretse Khama, though belonging to the generation of ardent traditionalists, showed no effort to obliterate the symbolic presence of the former tenant. I had noticed that pictures of Sir Seretse Khama still graced the walls of State House, together with those of the incumbent president. When I saw these retained symbols of continuum, I postulated that Africans were generally superstitious and would had hence tended to nurture deeply morbid fears of death, particularly in residences of power and esteem where former beneficiaries would have ailed and died. Discarding these unrealistic fears, and portrayal of the vivid examples of untainted regard for official residence as a place of service devoid of personal patronage symbolized to me true attributes of political maturity. In this connection, Quett Masire singled himself out for this political maturity award as the first succeeding tenant of a deceased predecessor. Coupled with the fact that Sir Ketumile had been close, life-long friends with Sir Seretse Khama, President Masire appeared to me to have set an excellent tone for future tenancy of the State House and assumption of powers of state.

That was, however, until I read In his memoirs Sir Ketumile expresses sentiments that undermine my sentiments about retaining footprints of the late Sir Seretse Khama. Quett Masire depicts himself as a victim of a slow and cumbersome bureaucracy that made him tolerate pictures of his late friend and predecessor, even though he would have preferred otherwise. Sir Ketumile writes:

“As president, Seretse Khama’s picture had hung on the wall in every government office and most business establishments. Civil servants took it as given that after I became president, my picture should be on the wall.

But in the workings of government bureaucracy, it took many months before Seretse’s picture was taken down and exchanged for mine. When the pictures were exchanged, some people, especially some Bangwato, were resentful.”

My observations were correct, however, about Sir Ketumile’s reluctant to comment in detail to us during the interview we had with him when he returned from China. To us, the journalists, it appeared straight forward that the Vice President would assume the presidency upon the demise of the incumbent. We assumed the government recognized the fact and presumed the public felt the same way. Apart from the man’s renowned reticence, why was he reluctant to answer our questions on the succession plan? It took 26 years for Sir Ketumile to answer the question. He writes about his feelings when Sir Seretse Khama died and he had to adorn the cloak of state:

“The transition after Seretse’s death was very difficult for me for many reasons. First, I had lost a very close friend and a colleague whom I greatly admired. Second, there was the grief we all felt on losing the man who was the father of the nation. Then there was a feeling among the public that government was in too great a hurry to select a new president. Further, both the natural grief that everyone felt, and the public’s concern that we were acting too hastily in choosing a successor, were focussed on government; and it was especially directed to me as the interim leader of the government. It was a very trying time.”

Monday, March 28, 2011


Once he had a song composed that was his and he owned

The lyrics were his and so were the cords so well tuned

Then he thought himself unfit to play the flute and sing

That song that he used to sing was left tunelessly unsung

But he kept the flute and the soulful notes

The musical lyrics remained in his bones

Soon he realised he ought to have played his hearty tunes

That he never sought less than singing in such fine tones

He lamented the lost notes and the drifting away lyrics

Hardest as he concentrated he felt he had lost the histrionics

Was the music all gone with his unsung song?

Or would he ever again compose melody so strong?

Recollecting he gathered his garments of life and readied for strife

No stone would be unturned and no moment spared of his life

Because hardest as the shell of struggle to reclaim remained

He would have sufficient stores of pursuit for reclaim retained

To go after the tune and tones and lyrics

And rebuild his song on new musical bricks

Andrew Onalenna Sesinyi

Wednesday, March 23, 2011


The African politician is a con artist par excellence

When winds of change blow dictators feign reticence

All autocrats suddenly swear oath to sound democracy

Speeches of freedom and goodwill displace autocracy.

Yet just yesterday the African demagogue spewed evil

Only yesterday he ranted and chanted songs of the devil

Cursing dissident voices and muzzling liberties and freedom

He was at variance with the Bill of Rights and its wisdom.

The African dictator is a solidly moulded mimic of minds

When world standards dictate he pretends to meet demands

Knowing well that just yesterday he laid an infrastructure of repression

He uttered rules and regulations that spelled his autocratic intention.

Yet this wolf in sheep skin with his full bag of laws against humane laws

Cues in the parrot cry of those that desire a democracy without flaws

This is the man whose wanna-be-a-god ambitions were thwarted

The man whose creative path to authoritarian rule was aborted.

The African despot now swaps his sword for a pretentious flag of truce

His packs of lies overflow the ship of belief as it floats on a deceitful cruise

His gullible flock like children tricked with candy sweeten his deceipt

As they cheer him on and clap empty hands that never experienced receipt.

Oh you fickle, cheap and degradable African addicts of political decoys!

Oh you insatiable canivores of untruths and ever willing political toys!

When will dawn come to African nations to know when to cry foul?

When will Africa learn to unveil carriers of pain before nations howl?

Nations have risen against dictatorships but Africa remains nonchalant

Self righteous smirks depict Africans to whom repression is their penchant

Yesterday they planned to voice themselves against perceived lunatics

Today the lunatics make them gyrate to manipulative political gymnastics.

The African needs memory transplant from his wildlife pride, the elephant

Whereas the pachyderm boasts of memory, that of the African is of an infant

A leader who yesterday revised democracy minimizing its core principles

Today he only has to open volume to full blast for them to stay docile disciples.

By Andrew Onalenna Sesinyi

March 5th, 2011.

Friday, March 11, 2011


Evil thrives better than good because it's a loner
Unlike good the network of evil expends no toner
Evil is uglier in creation but better built for survival
Good is a flimsy apparition wasting away at interval

Evil broods no good moods and plans no tortuous deeds
Good is a shameless stalker addicted to endless needs
Evil thrives on degeneration and road networks to peril
Good is an imbecile of creation ever in pursuit of the devil

Evil looks for  no good and would not be be bothered
Good seeks evil but its good that gets smothered.
Evil is without pretext with its chapters of destruction
Good is a make-up artist with layers of self obstruction

I saw evil walking down the path on a sunset lit day
Good was lurking in the background but at bay
Evil paraded the horizon with colossal arrogance
Good though ubiquitous lacked the same elegance

Evil never stalls or blush in musks of reticence
Good is the shy performer so ever in abstinence
Evil hesitates to no viral dangers or pause to reflect
Good is the conservative psychosomatic of real fact

Andrew Sesinyi in reflections on life......