London Skate Project

Morgan Tsvangirai: a tribute

Dear Zimbabweans

Tomorrow a man will wake up, eat his first meal of the day, kiss his wife and drive to the cemetery where he is employed as a grave digger.

At no point will he understand the importance of his work, for tomorrow he digs a grave for man of character.

And the mud on the gravediggers hands will be history, the history of a Zimbabwean son who dared to stand up against tyranny, who suffered the indignities of prison and torture for what he believed.

Many will say he failed in his futile pursuits but more will talk of his dedication and unrelenting labours towards the cause.

His vision a bright new Zimbabwe cut short all too soon.

That grave will be for Morgan Tsvangirai, a leader and a friend of the Zimbabwean people.

May his vision endure now that his body cannot.

Wasted Petals

She was there in the debris of what could have been. A moth on fire on the back of her

jacket, smoky eyes peering over the fur collar to dazzle with those cherry pop lips against

sun tinted skin and legs in cut-offs like sabres.

I watched her jukebox from one empty glass to the next but she never remembered my

name no matter how loud I said it.

The youth we shared, back then, was a currency all too quickly wasted on bad drugs and

worse people. She couldn’t help herself.

There were roses in the gutter, too many like her, and tulips on the side of young

tombstones. I knew the beauty would take her, so I watched and grew petals while

I waited.    

Glitter Blue Lipstick

An understanding came over him in the smoky twilight; here in this slug motel on edge of town. In this place of drugs, booze and heedless sexual encounters he sat at the edge of the bed, hands in hair contemplating a great truth.

Two paths lay before him; one to happiness the other to Love. Because they could never be the same, not when Love could be so dangerous and could inspire such lunacy. 

Not when Love could be the red dress lying on stained carpet next to a broken martini glass marked with last night’s glitter blue lipstick.

That type of love took its chances, burnt brightest and died young, hurt you in the most satisfying ways and walked away with what little dignity you had left.

And this is where she found him from beneath the fallen sheets of their reckless bed. Wrapping her arms around his naked torso she placed her head on his back to listen to him breath and ease what troubles he’d found.

This was the answer he was looking for, so he chose love, the path more treacherous, but the only one worth dying on.

The House of Beautiful Things

There would be no water, not even in a house built on such deep foundations. So she walked away and bred her light on new sands. And like all great adventurers the sadness she felt was soon eclipsed by the wonders she encountered.

Trees grew in once brutal soil, here she found comfort, joy, freedom, the freedom to find the lost person she could barely remember trapped in that house of such deep foundations.

Here spirits of wild beings and other broken souls floated gently on warm currents of ethereal tones and she embraced them and slow danced to their music.

Before long she was singing too, about a reckless man who had no right to hold her heart in his rough hands and the front door she slammed in his face.

He only told her she was beautiful when he made her cry and she grew weary of being beautiful.

How To Fall

Let’s talk about love, said her that December they spent on the Island. He understood immediately and wanted to reply;
the human heart has the capacity to love millions, in a universe of infinite possibilities and outcomes there can be no such thing as just one perfect soulmate.

Suddenly he saw in her eyes something many thought impossible. It was as if they never left that place where they first met; dancing to the slow music, barefoot on the silver sands of the moon lit bay.

He realised from the first moment he saw her face and she smiled at him he had fallen, and loved her since. 

In that moment he needed to say I love you and I will always love you because that was the only truth to ever matter but he saw in her eyes she already knew. 

The next day they found

We all knew the extent of Walter’s issue. He drank too much on his own, never had a bottle he couldn’t empty or bother to share.

It made him weak and this was not the type of neighbourhood to show weakness in. Not back then, now they got those fancy coffee shops and apartments no one can afford, back then packs ran the street, Wolves of men looking for breakable things.

He drove a brown Toyota pickup truck everywhere, crashed it more than once. It had a dent on the left bumper, one of the fenders was almost obliterated and he had this long rusted gash on the other side where he hit a gate post and kept going. That thing was as battered as him.

He passed out in it one time, in front of my house on Jamaica avenue, I took the twenty from his wallet and hit him in the head with it...because fuck him he was an asshole too that's why. He was so drunk he never even flinched.

A week later my cousin tried to sell me Walt’s tape deck radio. I told him I didn’t want it cause he left the bracket behind and it wouldn’t work, he sold it to some guy for parts.

He didn't know this; Walter, he was always looking for the dark bus out of here, the one to the next place that runs on the hope for something better. And when he finally caught it, it was from multiple organ failure most likely caused by tainted booze. I know where he got it from too.

There was a still up in the township next to our neighbourhood selling home-brew by the litre but you had to bring your own Jug. And the guy selling it would soon as take your shoes as your cash for payment. It was cheap but it got you fucked up.

Walter parked up by the rail tracks and sat down on a nearby storm drain to watch the sunset while he drank. I guess he just blacked out, slipped away.