Who We Are A Short Film By Zacharia Saki starring Menzi Mbnambi

Who Tells Our Story

I sit upon and fix my thought on the distant landscape,
listening to the sounds of the city telling stories,
the driller roaring in an unknown language,
the wind in between the buildings humming the same tune,
the streets telling our stories yet not really understood.

I penetrate the mechanism perpendicular to the point of reference,
take a chance in understanding he that tells our stories,
why and when do we get hear them...

I partake in picture perfection
prolonging the moment of hearing the story teller singing in my ears,
stories that awaken my fears,
tears I weap as the horizon becomes blare,
words turning sour as the tell-lie vision recites confussion,
colliding phylosophies,

I listen to the story tellers voice
yet not seeing nor knowing his origins,
he give just a portion of the story and the rest is ommission.

In between the days which are the pages of my existance,
I let go of the fear, let my wounds bleed exposed to the winds of change
within this cage of cash coupons and color coded criminals,
where the sun rise only to tell a story of a prisoner
who is said to be free in a context of Democracy,
His freedom is limited to the card system bar-coded
and ready to be sold to the highest bidder
in the market of souls, flesh and blood...

Head hunters make alliances with the slave masters,
pastors preaching a pre-paid gospel,
the prophet in the streets shouting,
"go tell it to the mountain, set my people free, set my people free"...

In a theatre of dreams where passion pushes performance.
It can take one a lifetime to see beyond these walls,
Beyond the grinding machine and the till rhythm,
life is lived and experienced

Let not the coins take away
reason and common sense
live to experience not through the lens
but in natural light.

A time came when the Arch was taken away fom the people, it was then exiled to foreign lands , those whose faith was in the Arch lamented for they new not that the Almighty One dwelleth all around and manifests where ever he wills. Then in this time they were to be taught that man is the Arch of Covenent, and the Law is written upon his heart. 

How like trash my people have become...

How like trash my people have become,

Like rubbish thrown into the bin,

Like trash I write this poem under the illusion of a bash

sound, noise, homes turning into night clubs.

The youth embracing house in ecstasy living for the now

and the joyfully it passes but them do not know.

Like trash their destinies are not known.

How wasted is the night, like trash its takes an unknown ride.

Pride of the unwise blinds and brings them to their demise.

How like trash they have succumbed to the bottle and its toxic drink

Sink into the bottom of Jack Daniels, while others are flying with the fish eagle

Single man get hooked and wake up with stories, single ladies get to feel the heat

Of a drunken horn, some get syphilis and cauliflower, Aids breeding temples.

Twisted philosophy of drunkards about drunkenness, how like trash we have become.

Deep down this melody I hum as another line comes,

Like trash I throw these words back to myself and search for peace of mind in true reality not in this noise, not in this kind of happiness

Like trash I throw it back to the so called DJ he must find a place for it in his music tray and make his drunken audience scream even more leading them more astray.

For this youth Lord I pray as another day comes more trash will be thrown into the rubbish bin and the smell manifest itself more horrible for we have become so terrible like trash we are no longer beautiful.

Selling their bodies, chasing their desire the coin becoming their main focus,

Like trash they have become at teen age prostitution becoming their profession.

Leaving school for a money making man, Shebeen is their dwellings with endless memories of sleepless Fridays and Saturdays opening their legs to different shapes and sizes of drunken man who is also horny, just for any kind of pussy he can settle for to ease his hot muscle and satisfy his erection…

How like trash we have become, like a sound track that never ends yet not making any sense. Track after track, midnight passes the innocence of a child is stolen, promises broken, like trash thrown into the bin.

How can then one analyze the sin, the sin of menkind which separates him from his creator. How can we discover secrets about life and death, the real purpose why we are on earth, destiny and the blessings on our path.

How can trash then find the higher purpose of living, who is in drunkenness, singing, fighting everyone who looks at his women, who even fight the women for being pretty. Like trash this night is also thrown into the bin of nights and days, experiences and stories wasted with the bash and the cash involved. Short skirts are sliced, the breast they fall, like trash they also become and are called wasted teabags no milk they can bare but castle milk stout for the young one to suck and also be drunk.

Children starts drinking in their mothers wombs, bodies becoming living tombs,

Like trash infants are thrown and flushed with the toilet killing the seed.

Read that which has been prophesied written in the past about the present,

about today and more days like yesterday…tomorrow like trash you’ll be thrown away.

It came to pass that the music was no more, it had stopped soothing the ear, and refreshing the soul. the people of the times recycled music from their forebearers in repetition up until it lost its meaning, its role was bastardized and ridiculed,

those who still possessed the fountains of inspiration became outcasts and the music only belonged to a few who still could listen to the celestial voices and sing. Loneliness and stress engulfed those who dwell upon the earth, frustration and war ruling them, their hearts were turned into black up until they could hear no more music. Them that still had it, kept it like precious jewels for through melodies they could communicate with the celestial world, give thanks and praises unto the Almighty. Their hearts and souls were in peace because their lives were lived in song and their story was told in song. These were the times leading toward judgment of the earth and all those who dwelleth upon it, hence it was written sealed upon the books of the Ancients.

Progress

...ti's to think and apply your thought that manifest action and forge direction.

Energies focused on the right path are like seeds planted in good season. Experience is the influence that keeps the candle burning, like a fountain inspiration gives birth to creation. the will to create cannot be arrested for it is embedded on the movement of the universe. Which is progress of life in spirituality and knowledge, I am because you are is a natural way of life which always reminds us that everything is connected to each other. There is no life without the other and there is no day without the sun. Within are the qualities which are your secrets yet without the will those qualities rest in the graveyard. Until they are filled with life they shall awaken with determination to fulfill their destiny. Truly there are treasures to be discovered in the dwellings of the wise....