I’m an aspiring success from the township. Day in and day out, I am glued to the internet and television broadcasters displaying all that I lust for. From the cars, to the clothing, to the homes, a typical ghetto dream considered a cliché. But when the sun is asleep, and the moon befriends a dreamer’s ambition, I desire much more than my hand can possess. I desire a great name! For I fail to fall asleep hearing the haunting cheers of the crowds yelling my name at the top of their lungs, with the media being glued to my work like the Pope on religion.

When the night has come and all the sceptical voices of those who settle for being average have been silenced by sleep and limited will, I become a god. My attitude evolves from being shy to humble, from being confident to arrogant, from being a hopeless introvert to being a charismatic extrovert on Christ’s level. Perhaps it is because my dreams are in continuous competition with my imagination with the one claiming to be bigger than the other. This is me, this who I am in the night: a king with the power overflowing from dreamland. YES! All hail king Sbu, your lord with unimaginable strength! But that is only at night.

At the dawn of day when my vampire abilities escape and evade my body, and I am back to being a mere mortal again, I seem to be trapped in a maze in search of my confidence. I don’t usually fool myself. I know I am not the most attractive book in the store, because my sales and fame talk much louder than my ambition. In the media when those who are glorified are being interviewed, overused statements frustrate the talent out of me. Dream big, believe in yourself, never stop trying etc. etc. There’s nothing wrong with these statements, they’re perfectly well articulated to sustain the endorsements of those that are public figures. But what about me? The boy who’s sung lullabies by gunshots and couple fights at night, a boy who sits in the corner in the company of fools discussing their next high. A boy lazy to take a bath on Saturday because he has no clothes other than the ones he’s been wearing for two days. A boy who’s searching for inspiration and aspiration within his surroundings, but all he’s fed are glamorised bandits. He who’s not even certain of the meal that will be served before sleep.

I ask you not to feed me fantasy in the name of motivation, because deep down we all know: it’s either I want it or I don’t. The fact of the matter is: we all think we have it, but very few do. Much less are fed with the gift of will to get up and go get it so they can have it. Where I’m from, I have all right to self-loathe, after all, I am a dusty book in the storage of a book store. But I have no time to moan. The content that rests within this book pays no mind to what the customer in the store is looking for.

Here is how the content page has been set thus far: First time on a theatre stage, I came third out of a hundred and forty poets. I compiled an 83-poem anthology containing only original pieces, was featured on a song and video with The International Association of Scientologists, six of my poems were featured in a publication called “A Collection of Poetry and Prose” with over 36 experienced writers from all over the globe. I co-produced, shot and edited five films and sold four to a national broadcaster as a self-taught filmmaker. I walked away from the money and equipment to start my own company, because I never dine with people who claim my hunger satisfaction after a meal. And, should I mention, I’m only twenty-one. So, this dusty book with the ‘not so attractive’ cover will soon be the talk of the town once it’s converted into a feature film that will crash all box office records.