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.”