The true life tale of two spirits colliding, of two cultures clashing, of two languages struggling to explain what comes naturally, of two souls tangling but striving to keep their individuality… Woza Moya Muhle! 

My Zulu Girl. Her English Boy.

She speaks from her eyes. Her words are her spear. In the Garden of Eden the creator took my rib to create her. In the garden of Glenora, her speak twists in my side. Writhing right, weighing left. My speech from my left Hemisphere. Her reaction from those of the Southern Hemisphere, her people invaded from those from the Northern… 

She travelled from Northern Natal to the City of the Cape, way down South. She entrusted her boy child, natal, post, past, a present, to the Father of her Child, a financial necessity. 

I entrusted both my boy children, to their Mother, to fulfil her dream of bearing children, to secure her future of being a Mother, her choice of destiny from that day on. Their Mother traveled from North London, to the City of the Cape, way down South in Africa. 

I delivered my seed, in vitro fertilization (IVF), far cheaper in Africa, a financial necessity. 

I entrusted both my boy children, to their Mother, to her wagging tongue, to her well earned wages, a financial necessity, to secure them their home. 

My Zulu woman. Her English man. 

We sit and talk together. We talk of our art, of our drama, of our roots, of our trauma, our lives, our lies, our uncommon ties. We waggle our tongues, and wield our whips, unknot our ropes, and break our ties. We wriggle our lips, we sharpen our teeth, and cut out our tongues, we chop off our heads. 

Licking and listening deep for diamonds, whispering from my dark veins and from within her dark eyes. Lashing not learning. 

Lasting injuries. Industrious to the last. We lie there, still, and alone. 

We cut out our hearts. We both are hurt. We both are bleeding. 

We still stand there. Alone.

We stand in silence together. 

Our energy alone does all the talking, her energy, and mine. My base trauma, deep digging of diamonds, from my dark veins of gold, essential hard labour and glistening sweat, how hard I rise. I witnessed my tingling, both frightened and excited. I witness my tingling, both observer of brains and of body. I entrust my adventure to the security of mystery.I win the uncertainty that I lose the three step by step guide. 

I stand with an entity. To sit down with an uncertainty. To lie down with insincerity? To live this serendipity? I stand with an entity, to die with sincerity, to dance with our energies. 

Her witnessing is her own, her witnessing through her lenses. Her dark sunglasses, her bright clothes of colour, her dark ebony skin. Her base trauma, her deep beauty light like diamonds, bleeding deeply from her veins of dark gold. Her mankind digging daily, drawing diamonds from deep in Red earth, from the rock and soil of Africa, from the dark caverns of coal, from deep in their veins of gold. Her womanhood drawing daily water from deep wells, as dark maids and therapists, to light children of the Madams and the Masters and all the Madmen. Her ancients drawing together, her families and her clan, from the shadows to the light, with their drumming to their feasting, their own fires to light. Her ancestors drawing images with voices, drawing out their shadows, dancing with the flames, dancing with the flaming colours of fire light. 

Whose ancestors destroying their earthly lives? Whose children dead not buried, dancing on empty graves? Whose people darkening their shadows, white ash corn sheath left to lie on the dark soot left from their burning lands. Whose ancestors desecrating their traditions, drowning their dignity, their writing in their sand. Whose people dance in the colour light of fire? Dance dripping with the fruits of their land. Dance glistening in gold? Dance draped in the diamonds of their necklaces long due? Their necklaces long due? 

Whose ancestors? Mine… 

Whose ancestors destroying their earthly lives? Whose children dead not buried, dancing on empty graves? Whose people darkening their shadows, white ash corn sheath left to lie on the dark soot left from their burning lands. Whose ancestors desecrating their traditions, drowning their dignity, their writing in their sand. Whose people dance in the colour light of fire? Dance dripping with the fruits of their land. Dance glistening in gold? Dance draped in the diamonds of their necklaces long due? Their necklaces long due? 

Whose ancestors? Mine… 

My metal mind, cooled and compartmentalised and closed. 

Her heartbeat drumming, her throat a war cry, her mouth open. Her teeth bared, a pointed threat and a broad smile. A metal mined by her fathers. A sharp spear of challenge. Her heartbeat pounding, of her regiments of Impi’s *, of male soldiers of war, of women a force of forced labour pounding corn. 

My brain tangled with History, my mind tinged with His-Story,  my body tingling with Her-Story. My judge weighing right from wrong, the black and the white ox, her the black cow with myself the white bull, working together and pulling together, ploughing together, bound by same common yoke, binding our shoulders, dragging the same plough, deep under common ground, dragging us down, hands scattering the seed in all directions of the wind, flinging caution to the wind, each hand carefully planting seeds in deep furrows, parallel, together yet apart. 

In the first world war when my forefathers did fight. Family men who did die. Trenches one foot apart. Feet in deep separate trenches, feet and fear in mined trenches of war. Mines hidden underfoot, with unexpected explosions, tearing limbs and lives apart. Minds hidden behind the lines of frowning furrowed foreheads, buried in brains, furrowed on the surface the cerebral cortex constantly mining for information to process, the frontal lobe foreseeing a brighter future but denying a dark past, keeping a fist full of deep secrets, keeping safety in mind. Minds. Unpremeditated explosions tearing lives and loves apart. Minds displaying emotions, blowing expectations apart.

A young soldier’s white skin blackened by shrapnel. My white face confused with a black mans soul. A young warriors black skin white lines of scars. Her black face faking, to fit in as a civilian in so called civilisation. 

We have only just met, just yesterday, or was it a last year Yet… We love and we fight, waves and seasons collide, sunlit sky raging storm. Until death us to part? Or to part still alive? Or to live together but alone? Or with lust still, or alive? Or to go on to be witness, to the death of the ego, the death of the I? As question? As Soul? As spirit.? An energy? A part of it all…? 

I invite you with welcome, Zulu woman. I am an English man. 

“Woza Moya muhle

Sibambana ngezandla sibemunye…”

“Come good spirit

Let us hold each others hands and be one…” *

This poet. A Zulu Woman. This poet. An English Man. 

AUTHOR: 

Geoffrey Wright © 07 September 2025, Glenora Redemption, Cape Town, South Africa 

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DEDICATION : 

This work is dedicated to: