Monday, January 07, 2008

The Boy who Lost his Penis. 5

And so a meeting in all seriousness took place

at half past twelve, afternoon,

Archives Building, first floor.

Meeting Room,

where a dozen chairs plus quite an elliptical table

were to listen to an incredible and almost rounded story.

- No, no, no. Cannot be made like that.

I have checked all names in the list.

No, no, no. Cannot be.

Yes I have checked all them:

Nike, Adidas, Reebok, Puma
Converse, Hilfiger and Calvin Klein.


None from these keep on sale watercolour underwear,

neither watercolour shorts, nor bikers, no, no.

No watercolour trousers to dress in watercolour Tsotso boy's naked thighs.

-Scissors? No, no, no.

It is most high risk.

We could spoil that watercolour Abu horn...

-Razor blade? A small window in that paper?

No, no, no.

It would bring our visitors wondering about genitals and sex,

- Listen to me, I keep a solution,

and we can approve it in a minute.

My cousin Mwandiwa,

he is decorator for Nyayo Buildings Ltd.,

he can mend faulty finished walls by applying new paint on the wrong.

He even experienced at painting one crashed Bus

and he painted that Bus that no one would ever think it was not new.

He can place new paint on the old design.

Abu horn will remain.

Nothing wrong.


Since that day, yes indeed,

Tsotso herald keeps blowing the horn.

Playing same roll as Mrs. Adamson had given him,

in same piece of watercolour paper she used

to communicate to the world about her love for art

and her love for truth.

Yet only a blot quite different in its colour shade from the original background

light grey blue appears there now,

giving news to our world that the body needs

castration and repression.

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