When Blacks Ejaculate – Mbe Mbhele

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When Blacks Ejaculate

I EJACULATED AND NOTHING CHANGED. My mother called me to tell me that she misses me and I still do not understand what she meant. Regardless I told her that I miss her too. It has been a while since I have been honest and it is primarily because of fear. Fear to speak the truth because often those who do get isolated. They are treated as though they have a contagious disease, leprosy of some sort. I do not know who birthed in me the fear of being isolated. The world perhaps has not given me a chance to dance to the peaceful rhythm of being alone.

I want to speak about people. I want to gossip on the page. I want to tear it with brutal observations of a world that claims to be true and real but only sustain itself on lies. I want to write a story about a barber that knows nothing but dreams and nightmares but still struggles to differentiate between the two. I want to write about school teachers who can’t listen to music, school teachers who only hear guns and knives in silence. There is no voice inside me and there is no inside. There is just a surface, confusion in a sentence. The knee and the elbow are not cousins. My skin colour and my thoughts are not familiar to each other. I have lied, not only to me but to us. What use are these guitars and trumpets when there is nothing but emptiness inside?

I was never young and never old, time died prematurely and I had no ways of tracing the Sun. I have been living in darkness for a long time and I have no memory of any other place. Light has disappeared without a trace. I remember only the rattling of empty pots and the growling of empty stomachs. That is the only sound that I am familiar with and the only sound that I understand. Days and nights have remained the same. The city has always been sleepless and cold. The winter has run all years long, centuries perhaps, with nothing but shackles around my ankles as shelter. Sleeping in alleyways and pavements and in a different world like I am some sort of caveman. The cold of the day and freezing of the night could always be felt between the spaces of my teeth. There are only a few that were brave enough to survive outside. The others did not have to be brave. It was enough that they were black and therefore had to adapt and survive outside and I was one of them. I never knew what people were listening to, jazz became strange. The only sound that was within my ears reach was the sound of screeching tyres and roaring buses. This was after I had decided to leave home and become a hobo. The only art that was within my reach was installations of stabbed bodies after every payday. I would go to the art to observe it and feel its texture. Should I find any cell phone, wrist watch or bank note I would take it. Make it mine, temporarily.

I ejaculated and nothing happened.

Mbe Mbhele is the author of an anthology of short stories, Crazy Father and Other Very Short Lies. He runs an art blog and is a student at the University of Witwatersrand in South Africa.‎


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