“My desire to write is connected with my homosexuality. I need the identity as a weapon, to match the weapon that society has against me.” - Susan Sontag
Not another healing manifesto by Nkcubeko Balani [@freetownnoir]
“Those who are present will know.” - me A performance begins with visuals flashing vividly and leaving. A holy grail carefully tracing itself and setting its terrain. Out walks Fatima, braids swing to the back, dressed in isigcebhezane; red. Fatima moves to a microphone in front, and begins, as I attempt to be steady, to recite words which flow and fill the whole field. She uses “fuck” and then “blessed” as words joined together by a seamstress weaving a garment.
“Blessed are the boy-dykes.” For they’re nothing outside of this psalm. For they too breathe - in and out - fuck - in and out - patriarchy. This is meant to be isbhilivano written after a weekend of seeing some of my favorite musical acts: a love letter or a doctor’s sick note - reason for me to be both within and without. It’s treading between both; I might end by tearing it up, allowing it to humanely take up the space my being inhibits: within but without.
“Blessed are you, when they mock you, and persecute you, and say all sorts of evil against you falsely.” Fatima moves back as the the sounds from “Isifundo Sokuqala” begin. It’s a five-minute message initiating with what sounds like showers of rain. At the outer edge, you can hear cricket-like sounds gradually growing, engulfing welcoming Fela saying:
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