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.

VOICELESS....

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...

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!

GUEST SPEAKER ADDRESS AT MISA NATIONAL MEDIA AWARDS '11

EXTRACT FROM MY KEYNOTE ADDRESS AT THE



MISA NATIONAL MEDIA AWARDS 2011, GABORONE SUN.


October 7, 2011. [GUEST SPEAKER REMARKS]


Let me share with you my notions of freedom of expression and its importance or significance to democratic society, starting with a provocative quotation from Noam Chomsky, courtesy of the internet; and I quote:


“If we don't believe in freedom of expression for people we despise, we don't believe in it at all.” UNQUOTE






The freedom to express our thoughts is an indispensable, non-negotiable, innate, and hence, natural part of our individual identity. Humans are networked by the forces of creation and or evolution to speak and write about their opinions because, being gregarious by nature, it is through self-expression that they contribute ideas and participate in society. Social cohesion, that is, the act of sticking together as individuals in society, is a direct product of free, facilitated and uninhibited self-expression. Freedom of expression is guaranteed in the Botswana Constitution under the Bill of Rights and is also covered in article 19 of the United Nation’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights.


Since Botswana is a committed member of the United Nations, I shall quote the overarching Article 19 of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights which goes thus: quote:


“Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference, and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers”.


Unquote!


In all self-respecting, true and non-camouflage, non-sugar coated democracies- in other words- truly free and fair democracies- freedom of expression is widely acknowledged as a basic human right that should be available to all. Freedom of expression is recognised in democratic nations as playing a crucial role in a fair and open society.


However, despite this well researched and easily accessible blueprint of a democratic, free and fair society, many leaders who rise up among freedom loving masses, often mutate into architects of limited freedom of expression. This applies to countries and organisations, to political leaders, civic leaders, church leaders, opinion leaders and many other categories of leaders. Leadership is not limited to the political cadre.


These limitations, which are usually coated in self-righteous, self-serving, self-seeking and spurious prescriptions of what is good for society, tend to be roadmaps to controlling people and people’s thought processes. What is even more poignant about these limits to freedom of expression is the legacy of turncoats that rise from the masses, as has been the case in post liberation struggle scenarios; where leaders become even more resourceful and more dexterous, more ferocious designers of limits to freedom of expression, than their overthrown totalitarian predecessors.


Voting rights restrictions, censorship of speech and art and outlawing specific religious and political groups are some of the tools some governments have used to control public opposition. There are cases of even those societies purporting to be free and democratic, turning out to suppress dissenting views.


Ladies and gentlemen, democracy and its concomitant tenet of freedom of expression, requires high levels of tolerance and commitment to accepting criticism. Criticism is not necessarily a depiction of truth and it is rarely as damaging as those facing the critics imagine. Audiences are not homogeneously gullible as to accept everything they hear or read or see. Audiences disintegrate naturally into individuals when processing information received, and regroup to make collective choices of varying backgrounds.


Prescribed limits to freedom, work on the wrong premise that dissenting views can be suppressed by a one way flow of information. That is incorrect and self-defeating. Humans are designed to successfully digest only scientifically packaged information elements- and these are of the ‘for and against’ principle. Individuals want choice; they are designed to desire choice and only respond positively and constructively when such choice is presented in an unadulterated fashion.


One way information dissemination processes are deceivingly successful only in terms of giving a lulled impression of success to the disseminator; they are not a cure but a temporary pain killer for the disseminator. A two way flow of information, in an environment of free choice and free debate, wins the architect true loyalty and support.


I must now turn to the media and its responsibilities towards freedom of expression. As media practitioners, we are custodians of a right that must be enjoyed within the context of other rights, and the rights of other people and organisations in society. Quick fix expose’s and sensational news items intended to sell our newspapers and other media apparatus are fleas that feed on the good health of freedom. We must shake them off. We must disinfect ourselves of yellow journalism.


In this connection, it is incumbent upon the press to separate fact from fiction, truth from comment or opinion. We must say as many sorrys as our wrongs; make as bold apologies as we have mistaken. We must accept judgments of others about ourselves as we judge others. These responsibilities come with an indispensable requirement: respect for the rights of others; respect for the integrity of others; respect for the privacy of others.


To leaders in general, let us remember. Few leaders, if any, have risen in rank or stature without being built by the media. The last time a human was made out of clay was during the biblical creation. Leaders being human are built by people who build best when presented with information…truthful or factual information. We owe it to ourselves to look back and respect where we come from, and we shall see that it was the media that played a crucial role in putting us on the pedestal. Here again, I am referring to leaders of all categories, not just the political leadership.


Ladies and gentlemen, we have shared views. This ought not to be a sermon, but if it is, I am preaching to the converted. Let us celebrate tonight and then return to our desks to do the sterling job that we ought to do with responsibility, respect and dignity.






I thank you all!

AN EXTRACT FROM "CORRIDORS OF POWER" MY MANUSCRIPT YET TO BE PUBLISHED. A LOOK AT MY FIRST EUROPEAN TRIP WITH NEWLY APPOINTED PRESIDENT MASIRE IN 1980.

 "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."


……… …… …… ….. …… ….
AN EXTRACT FROM MY MANUSCRIPT "CORRIDORS OF POWER" WHICH IS YET TO BE PUBLISHED. HERE I REFLECT ON A TRIP TO EUROPE WITH FORMER PRESIDENT MASIRE SOON AFTER HE TOOK OVER AS PRESIDENT IN 1980.

CORRIDORS OF POWER

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.”

MARVELLOUS MAZE

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





By THE POET IN ME

Andrew Onalenna Sesinyi

DECEIPTFUL DICTATES OF AFRICAN DICTATORS

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.

WHY EVIL IS A BETTER SURVIVOR THAN GOOD

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......

CULTURE PHONIES

Culture is a cult politicians cultivate to con
Culture casts aside caution to create costs
It boasts of bouts of brainwashing bubbles
Where pride presides in prestine promises


Lying leaders lead lost losers lavishly
Preaching progress in porous parades
Chanting culture in chisseled casts of care
Hoodwinking in hidden holds of haughty heists


Political phonies ply people with phantasies
Calling culture a cure to causes of complex
That they thickly thought of to thwart true thoughts
So that nations note notions with naught needs


Bands of bandits brandish banners of blasphemy
Clamming  as they claim to clone culture correctly
Cutting chasms cased in coffins of coated charisma
While whittling at the whimsical wants of whiny wishers


Leaders lost in lust for lasting leases of lording
Sell sneaky styles for sane sense to simple souls
Calling culture a care for collective calm
While restraining with raptured robes of rusty realms.


By Andrew Onalenna Sesinyi
Written in the dark of night: 00:15hrs 10th March, 2011.