Mhanya

Is Shona for run.

I see a man in an arena, with thousands in the stands

On their feet cheering,

Chanting his name,

Goading him on to greatness.

But he will have none of it.

Not a  smile, not a flicker, no wave to his adoring fans.

Not a glance to acknowledge the mighty throng of support.

Stoic.

In the heart of it all yet somehow still apart.

Running.

 

 

He runs but does not hear them cheering.

He cannot.

He will not.

Lest he forget why he is there in the first place.

It is his sweat, and his sweat alone that will win him the victory.

Self made.

He will run himself to the dirt and he knows it

They’ve told him his pride will be his downfall.

He gets the rhetoric.

But those are mere words to him

The babbling of an aged philosopher.

He knows that in reality there is no other way

Greatness never floated into anybody’s lap

He wants it. Badly.

So he’ll run it himself.

To death. If he has to.

His legs will be his glory and his ruin;

Yet he wishes he had neither.

For he is a slave to his own ambition.

Mhanya.

 

Pity the runner who never knows when to stop,

Like a musician who can discern the music

Yet never feel good enough to hear the applause.

Pity these, for they may starve in the midst of plenty.

Unloved amid companions

Unknown in the midst of family.

For to them love is but a trophy

A reward for having run well

And not a fuel,

Spurring them on to the finish line.

 

 

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