Last week Kgafela oa Magogodi released his new collection of poetry and prose titled Outspoken (Laugh It Off Media). The cover, in primary red, hints at the hot immediacy of its contents. The anthology opens with what has become Magogodi’s anthem i mike what i like and attests to his spirit of independence; ”i am not a lick-ass poet”.
In his writing Magogodi gives equal weight to questions of sexuality, the drive to create in an unequal society and, of course, the causes of violence. A poem titled beautiful ones are dying plays on the title of a classic work of African fiction and is dedicated to film producer Dumisani Dlamini, murdered in 2004.
Magogodi has become one of Johannesburg’s most celebrated voices. His first book, Thy Condom Come (New Leaf), was published in 2002. He is a lecturer at Wits University where he has directed a number of groundbreaking dramas using oral poetry. On March 30 his collaborative performance production i mike what i like opens at the Momentum Theatre at the South African State Theatre. The work is described as ”experimental word theatre” and includes jazz by Ernest Mothle and fine art by Msawenkosi Xokhelelo.
Describe yourself in a sentence.
I am the bastard son of combat literature.
Describe your book in a sentence.
It is the meeting of madness and nakedness, where they cross, the red book is born.
Describe your ideal reader.
Ripe for uprisings.
Describe the process of writing and publishing the book. How long did it take?
Writing comes from soaking the head in the word … from reading the pulse of the soil. Over a period of four years since Thy Condom Come, I passed my scribbles to Phaswane Mpe to give a second eye and run a red pen across the split ends … that’s before he flew out early at 34 to catch the phattest metaphor. There’s also Ntone Edjabe, editor of Chimurenga, and Lwandile Sisilana, a lawyer who should have been a writer. These cats have sharp eyes for the word and how to shape it without castrating it. When I got involved with Laugh It Off Media, their in-house editor, Michelle Willmers, did a good job of turning the manuscript into the book, Outspoken. [See an extract of the title poem, right.]
Name some writers who have inspired you, and tell us why or how.
I’m heir to a long-standing tradition of corrosive writing. Its contemporary expression is found in the writings of Dambudzo Marechera, Ayi Kwei Armah, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Amiri Baraka, Okot p’Bitek, Lefifi Tladi and Lesego Rampolokeng. The force with which they walk the frank talk will always inspire me.
What are you reading at the moment?
I’m revisiting Es’kia, a book of essays by the most senior citizen of the word in the land, Es’kia Mphahlele. It’s dope. In one chapter, Literature: A Necessity or Public Nuisance? An African View, Mphahlele says: ”If you merely record that people are hungry and live a dog’s life under tyranny, and then climb a public platform to recite, you are doing nothing useful … The aim of doing this is to lead your audience to explore the meaning of their suffering …” Although Mphahlele spoke in 1983, this still carries high currency.
Do you write by hand, or use a typewriter or computer?
It begins with insane graffiti inside the walls of my skull. I sketch lines in my head. What matters is not the tools in use but a vision of the roadworks ahead.
What is the purpose of poetry?
To crack open the purpose and fling it to eternity.
Is there anything you wish to add?
There’s always something to add. But my ancestors insist that the sun does not set once. And so I stop here until the sun rises again when we meet at the State Theatre in … ehem … is it Tshwane or Pretoria? I am out there to mike what I like and, frankly, you don’t have to like what I mike.
Outspoken
outspoken
mouth wide open
i stick my tongue out
let loose the word
refuse to seal my lips
tongue-lash you
i crack skulls open
to release brain waves of slaves
in days of fongkong freedoms
chains are more insane
they run trains of virus
in the veins to kill us dead
in the head
but i escape the rape
of good hope i break out
of rib cages of dead pages
i translate rebel souls
to recreate mind states
when i bim-sala-bim
will sara baartman
return to the soil
as caliban or a taliban
outspoken
count on the open mic
to amplify
my truly irie lyrics
i rip voortrekker diaries
to pieces
i sink memories
of dromedaries
it sounds hip
when i wreck van riebeeck’s ship
i crush history’s kak stories
to ground zero
but i am just a scribe
not a hero
i bleed for the blue
i bleed floods of whispers
from homeless talk papers
scripting the fall of skyscrapers
because they rape us
skyscrapers rape us
skyscrapers