Boledi R Petja Biography

It moves steadily towards you in the most stealthy way possible... sound less and track less as it approach your site... moving in on you like a sunset that leaves the skies in shadows of doubtful memoirs....shadowing you in all ways that demotes you...leaving you doubful of the unknown realities of night fall... no noise no sound just a loud emphasis of silence...creeping in on you and ready to devour you...hear my soul as it crumbles in doubt of royal uncertainties...hear me scream a silent cry and hug me tight to scrub that pain away... promise to never leave my side in the mist of doubt..
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They marched against the waves without fear of perishing. Theirs was a song of hope beyond limit. Floating in like a canoe lost at sea. Flaunting all their anxiety at a crack of a white man's whip. Resisting the shame projected their way by the white man's wit. Breathless was their way into freedom. It was the only way to attain peace. Returning home had a new meaning for their degraded image. No matter the route they took. Forward they went into the sea. Deeper and colder as the waves brushed through their hair. Weaker and weaker become the call of their estranged master. Out of terror he called. Hoping to send chills down the blackness of his slaves. Hoping to trap that little black nest and harvest all its eggs. Hoping to sit high on the old man's back and point out to the fields for the little boys to clear. Gone was the word of the day in the master's play grounds. The Igbo chose the waves as a way out from shame. Nothing was ever the same for the lone man. Home so foreign that the Igbo herd choose the sea. The master's whip was not enough to keep them at shore. They paddled with hands and balanced in a line of overthrow. Nothing was worse than the shame curved on their footprints. It was a story of destitute. A way of life to send the message. A story so deep no waggon could fill its holes of resistance. Their rebellion was not meant to cause confusion. Theirs was to nourish the sea with their tears. Tears meant to cleanse their souls off the misunderstandings They suffered. They screamed not because they were afraid of death. They screamed in silence so loud that the masters left behind made memoirs to honour their names. Their death become the awakening of the new dawn. A new sprout of seaweed meant to ignite hope in the minds of all those trapped by mental slavery.
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There's a certain magic in the golden hour that hits differently, isn't there? The way the sun sets, bathing everything in this warm, amber light—like the world's been brushed with the softest touch. I often find myself longing for moments like these, where the silence speaks louder than words. Imagine sitting by a fire, a stranger across from you, but in that quiet, you don't feel like strangers at all. The air has that sharpness to it, the scent of rain just before it falls, and the rustling of leaves in the distance, like nature's own soft murmur.

In that stillness, the fire crackles between you, its warmth wrapping around you both as you sit on opposite sides. The flames flicker and sway, sending little sparks into the cool night air, and for a moment, you wonder what the other person's thinking. What's behind their eyes, as they stare into the flames, lost in the same unspoken thoughts? There's no rush to fill the space with words. The quiet feels comfortable, like it's enough.
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I am falling back in your embrace,
Like the moon surrenders to the night's grace,
A quiet descent, where silence speaks,
In the space between our hearts, it seeks.
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We connected through art,
But in the silence, I felt the words—
Not spoken, but understood.
It was in the quiet hum of a video call,
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