Family Secret Part 2: For The Visitor

Because we know that, once in a while, truth sees the light of day.

If you talk to the mandibles and maxillae, they’ll tell you which son is whose. The sternum will pass on rumours diffused from long dead hearts, now settled in the bone: who actually belonged to whom, for instance. What went wrong with which love. Such things. Phalanges and metatarsals will walk you through the history of the family business, recall all the gore it took to establish a good name. By good name, we mean a weaponised proper noun potent enough to destroy if need be and build whenever mandatory.

When you are done with the coroner’s report, please do all the burying sufficient to keep the children innocent. We pollute them only when they turn eighteen. Then they bleat on about the lies they were told before they realise they have no one else, really -at which point they return to the fold. You see, friends and acquaintances eventually float away – in allegiance and in focus – but blood thicker than water doesn’t drift too far.

For now, we bide our time…spend it getting the viscidity of that ichor just right. Yes, thus we justify our iniquities. We are family. We are law. We are everything.

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Copyright © 2021 Tebogo Ndlovu

Go here for Family Secret Part 1

Family Secret

He didn’t have to issue apologies for missing Christmas, having been busy with tying loose ends and making sure skeletons remained creatively tucked away in one skinny closet. When the sun went up the next day, Their lives carried on to the sleepy rhythm of serene ignorance while the skeletons turned over in their upright grave at such wilful cowardice. As for Them, they were grateful someone was there to keep Them from the truth -a freedom they did not want to be responsible for.

But a stubborn tibia has poked its way through the closet door -to the delight of a nosy visitor. All hell breaks loose in five, four, three, two…

All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2021 Tebogo Ndlovu

Curtain Call

Those who did, paid, resurrected:
found that life goes on.
Those that put a lid on it, held back, pressed on
for ‘dignity’s sake’:
found that who they were remained mystery.
In the end, all are gone
and what matters
is how we crawled towards the end:
In style and swagger,
winking at death;
Or timid and cautious,
begging for more
time, risk, the good pain
-apologising for disrespecting first chance,
knocking for second luck,
wishing we’d been stronger.

Copyright © 2021 Tebogo Ndlovu

PS: Inspired after reading the poem ‘Rosebud’ by J. S. Campbell, found in his anthology On Driftwood and Oblivion. This poem is not necessarily an interpretation of his poem ‘Rosebud’.

My books have finally arrived in paperback from across the ocean:
Under The Tamarind Tree by Rosaliene Bacchus
On Driftwood and Oblivion by J. S. Campbell
Girls Who Don’t Believe by Paul Broome

I still want to get my hands on the other books on my list such as The Stories Inbetween by River Dixon. Was not possible, this time, to get everything at once.