Sunday, 1 November 2015


I made it,

Shit I made it.

This piece we created was brutal, honest revealing,

We took to the stage and gave no quarter

A white South African male

And Black British Female

Tonight we let rip,

No bars held,

Questions/accusations with missile precision 

flew across the stage,

The frustration was released

The anger was released

The tears I cried the night before had dried

And in their place was fire.

I left my soul on that stage,

I left my pain on that stage,

I left my past on that stage,

Neither of us knew where this would go,

Neither of us knew that this would almost tear us apart

Neither of us knew we would have to give 

much more of ourselves than we expected.

It’s been a long time since I have held court 

with white people in this way.

I stopped blacksplanning years ago

Patience has never been a virtue of mine,

I found patience in South Africa

But a toil has been taken,

I will need to wash this process away

Wash away the white privilege

Wash way the white naivety, 

the white guilt

white shame

I carry enough of my own bullshit

I will not carry anymore than I need too.

will return home with only the luggage 

I bought along

Weighing me down

No excess

I will hold onto the black strength I have seen

I will hold onto the black pride I have seen

I will hold onto the black warmth, the black welcome,

First trip to the motherland

First trip home

it's been emotional

You cannot give so much of yourself 

to your art

without feeling exposed and vulnerable

without asking yourself if it was worth it

without questioning your own sanity

Exhausted and drained

I head back home

To the only real home I know

British soil awaits…..

No better, just different

Where I will begin to piece myself back together again

One poem at a time.

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