Tag Archives: freedom

Grandmother’s Hands

For Colored Girls London was a wonderful success and if you really want to know all the stories that surrounded its conception, production and performance just do a google search and you’ll find it all there ( can you believe, we can now be googled, so much for anonymity!). It’s been nigh on 6 months since I last posted, which means FAR too much has happened and it’d be awful for me to attempt to explain and write and describe and muse in retrospect. Moreover, where I once was able to write as a musing voice with no intended audience, since i’ve begun publishing my poetry and therefore having to put a name to my work, I now know I have (may have) an audience and moreover they know me – which changes the game entirely. However, for those who still once in a while pass through this former haven of my thoughts, I have a surprise in store for you in the New Year! (only a few days to go, stay excited).

In the meantime, one (amongst many wonderful things) that happened to me in November is I did a TEDx talk. Below is the link. I won’t say any more but do give it a watch, a listen, and if it touches you in a positive or challenging way, do share.

Wishing you seasons greetings. Till 2014

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#338 ~ Facebook

Escape from the book.

The temptation of the red square

A notification that reminds you that somebody remembered that you were there


In the ether of nowhere

Escape from the book, the images which you don’t care about

the lines and sentences which cram your brain with fruitless shit

But it’s the cheapest form of communication

And you don’t have a contract, not yet, #moneyissues



How do you feel now. Does that hurt? Are you sad? Are you going to cry?

Fix up – that’s reality. Maybe if you spent as much time working as you did worrying,

phrasing together witty lines, cool come backs, choosing what to surreptitiously like

Maybe you would also realize – you don’t care.

You need to get a life

Outside of the book

the ether


Come back to Here – maybe thats where you’ll find him


In the reality that exists

once you escape the book.

Can you find me there?

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#336 ~ Alex Jones

You’re right. Guns don’t kill people, People kill People…But People also make the Guns….so in a way, Gun’s do Kill people. It’s ok…you can still be American though.

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#313 ~ Psalm Series No. 17

Because I’d found this fruit

knobbly and covered in spikes

thick-skinned, yet deep inside a creamy, moist texture –

they called it Verite.

Because I had stumbled across this fruit and had managed to eat, not just spoonfuls,

but mouthfuls, dripping from my lips, nourishing my spirit

I was able to stare them in the eye

and speak fearlessly before those who were lauded on high

the words of


Psalm 119 vs 43, 46 – Do not snatch the word of truth from my mouth, I will speak of your statues before Kings, I will not be put to shame

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#311 ~ Psalm Series. No.15

He came to me in a dream,

The twine was woven tightly, tautly, he laced it round my body

pressing into my skin, chaffing my soul

but I managed to keep my mouth free

And therefore my mind

and I remembered to state

If my God is for me, then who could be against me?

Who could? Who could? WHO COULD?!

And the twine melted into satin strips, falling to the floor

falling from me

as I rose to praise.

Psalm 119 vs 61 -62: Though the cords of the wicked ensnare me, I do not forget your law. At midnight I rise to praise you, because of your righteous rules. 

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#247 ~ Ithemba Projects: Day 14

Edendale is the township to Martizburg. Sprawling with settlements and (finally) a large shopping complex, it is a community which, due to its large black community, under Apartheid was feared by the whites. Yet is also the home of, what may be seen, as the beginning of the Mandela story. Edendale Evangelical Church meets in the assembly hall of a local school – the last place Mandela publicly spoke before being arrested and taken to Robben Island for his anti apartheid activism. It isn’t anything special. No different to the schools in Sweetwaters. If one didn’t notice the statue outside, it would be no different to any other township building.  Yet the raw throb of voices in harmonious unity which penetrate through the brick walls sings of a joyful celebration.

Music is an intrinsic part of Zulu culture, and it is more rewarding than surprising when rich four-part harmonies meet together in a fantastic web of choral singing. However, Edendale Evangelical Church isn’t too dissimilar to my experience of Nigerian churches. The keyboardist tends to love drum rolls a bit too much, the Mother’s pick the key and wait for the keyboardist to catch up by the chorus, timing may not always be their strong point, yet, the  passion is just perfect. It is raw, voices are ripping, swooping and swirling in the color of jubilant praise, and most importantly, there is a freedom.

Churches in the UK are either stifled by choral music, perfect timings,  finite endings or silence. The choir, or the band are the leaders, and spontaneous songs are battened down just in case we don’t have the words printed on acetate or ready to go onto the screen.  Yet in Edendale Evangelical, even when the pastor stood up ready to address the congregation, if one old mama in the back felt like a reprise of verse 3, plus the chorus and of course the bridge, then that is where the church went.

Pronouncing the words was difficult, but the spirit of worship was not hard to catch. There was a freedom in the place which transcended ‘religion’, running to schedule or being orderly. Sure, arriving at 9am and leaving at 12.30-1pm has its drawbacks, but the ability to come together in fellowship, allow people to express themselves, cry, rage, give thanks – that’s a beautiful thing. Edendale Evangelical Church is rooted on the foundations of South Africa’s fight for political freedom, and man’s desire for spiritual.


Prayer for Day 14: For a spirit of freedom to be among places of worship the world over, especially in the UK.

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#200 ~ One Hundred Words and a Photo: 11

Tethered. Vibrant. Her eyes locked on the shackled kite. The painted green tree spurting towards the edges of its fragile jail, hemmed in by the patchwork cloth of the border line. She turned back on herself, neck craned, eyes strained. A soft wind, luxurious in the spooling afternoon heat cupped its back, kneading out the knots, elongating the spine, stretching out the branches from below the patented sign of familial wealth. She tugged at the grip. The flag pulled against the rope. It could have been a kite flying high, but she was still trapped within her own questioning mind.

Copyright: Victoria O

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