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Welcome to a Wordsmiths World,Where appellations is the mother city ‘sound is the town and the Republic is efficacy.

A Hip swaying Requiem for a Parisan

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Photo Credits to Oupa Nkosi. Senzo, Kgorogile Makgatle and Malcolm Jiyane Their band was called the Tree-O.

When we are born, we are presented to the world with no garment that drapes our miniscule lives. We only have a voice, a voice that echoes, one that should not for once be muted, for it will either broach adept conversations that are an indeterminate to fellow human being or become spitfires that are fuelled by the mishaps of our surroundings. The reality of this indictment is when we are laid to eternal rest, the world is left with the liberties of understanding a loss in a life, and the sadness of laying a peer to rest is a bitter concoction to sip. We need to show reverence ad infinitum to those who live amongst us while they are still in a present form.

The ferocious Senzo Nxumalo has jotted an untimely epitaph. It is regrettable that we have lost a disciple of sound and discipline that has left an implicit sound of silence. Sadly we are no longer able to see the high priest with an unclouded cornea. His footsteps resonate a slap of impeccable sincerity of being in his midst. He has left a trail that is inscribed and etched within us for the apex of the ground to the falling skies of the shattered earth.

We have soldiered forward with an insurgent that was never afraid to tackle the sabre-toothed platform that devoured plenty of freethinkers who have misconceived affronting utterances as troubled expressions.

Senzo flowed with copious volumes of melodies and foundations that moved our palms, fingers, pelvis’ and thoughts. It is with certitude that his birth is yet to ripple and will be revisited in honour of his influence and inspiration that has sprawled into a number of tributaries. The rhythm that he rode was intact, and never benighted or vapid. And now, he is amongst the tiny contingent of a huge galaxy that was lent to us, and not once was he cynical and puritanical of progression.

The time we have spent with Mdlephe was that of a true and incessant fanatic that was never perfunctory. This was a king that was readily subservient, even when he faced fatuous oddballs. Above all, in a state of piety he was bellicose for the right reasons.

Wretchedly, the grim recidivist of death has deprived us from outlining the outer part of an artistic shadow. As he is canonised, and hovers in and around our presence in infinity, and further than the while, Sothondoza even in injury times, has swept us away on the spot.

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