Mlondi Samkelo Ndlovu

Mlondi Samkelo Ndlovu Poems

Mlondi Samkelo Ndlovu Biography

Mlondi Samkelo Ndlovu (2000/04/14) is a budding poet, writer, and an eloquent multilingual innate ingrained in Africa. Uncovered by J.D Mkhize, later honed by Fiona Khan, he grasps the art’s traditions for novelty. He has performed for several audiences and privileged to share stages with eminent poets. His poetry has been reviewed by likes of A.J Daggar Tolar (Nigeria) . He continues to learn from prolific writers and follows African literacy. Time of the Writer placed him third in the schools competition for his moving short story. He has set out to write poetry of his own style and rules. “The best thing, I believe, to be gifted with, is to live in the township of Folweni. The best life, if not god, my ancestors have railed me upon is to be the son of a mother who is without fear, or so she acts. I am the son of a woman who knows how to pray, who knows the taste of my eyeballs and tears, and who knows how to live. I am the proudest son there is to have a mother who has stood erect with a stone in one hand and a metal bin lid on the other against FN rifles pointing out of Hippos. Growing up from Folweni, I have seen a person die, beaten to death, I have seen my mother in action, fighting like a man against men with knives, (perhaps this is why they call her T-man) and my uncles on her side. I have seen my grandmother bleeding, her face dripping with blood, and I remember well the stains of blood from the kitchen to the dining room. I remember even better her crying for the fighting to stop, asking my mother and uncles to stop. I remember the awe on my uncle and sister after waking up midnight to find his old Ford Bantam gone. I remember waking up midnight to pee and saw the gogo who lives down the street with a bucket. I remember my sister waking me to come check out the person who was screaming for his life. I cannot forget the sight of my mentally ill grandfather slamming my nephew to the ground or when he tried to stab my sister with a butcher knife and how mother fought him off. I remember the countless days I have cried, for many reasons, seeing my mother cry, remembering that we do not have a home, that wherever we lived was someone else’s home, not ours. To know that my father had a house but we could not live there because of his lechery, and his drinking. I remember the days when I would pray to God that he took me away right after that prayer, because I did not know whether tomorrow we’ll find ourselves living in the streets, or somewhere in a rental, we could not afford to pay off. During these times in my life, I have always stood at the contours watching events unfold consequently. Poetry is the way I choose to act.”)

The Best Poem Of Mlondi Samkelo Ndlovu

The Irony Of The Fruit

The air is filled with stenches of fury,
Freedom songs reanimated are
usurped from the dead in their sleep
for the cousin purpose of 1976.
The official seats have been warming up
and the officials have no seats like ants
preparing for the arrival of winter—
The iron doors cannot resist the invasion
of the Headquarters by the knowledge acquirers


The students versus the rainbow nation—
that was the label of the so-called war.
To them: voetsek zinja call it whatever you want!
The mere reason is the corruption and greed in your closets
that has you on your lowest levels


… Until the struggle was appropriated.
At a meeting the dead's spirits returned back
to weep at the loss of the course,
The river became dry, the graves became cold
and they all died their second deaths.
Meaning was lost in the freedom songs after
he suggested that we demand it;
The submission of the Blade
And said the solution was nature


Yellow-orange reflections at night were seen
in the wall opposite to the receptions
that warmed up with the smouldering heat—
all in the name of free education—
Libraries perished and smelt of books ash
and footprints led away to the res
The car tracks led the official buildings.
The investigators merely uncovered the pawns
We have been failed….

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