Trust lived in the dark and tempting ages where a man was lured to gnaw at the forbidden fruit, which the slithering snake crawled around it as if it were a skeeming ribbon. See trust lived for years and years. He actually hogged our lives’ Oxygen for many eons. Many fell for the robes that Trust the innocent that He shall have these multi-coloured robes sprawled for the young and the old. Many were hypnotized by the honey that escaped his mouth while he waxed lyrical about the possibilities of what lies ahead at the end of the rainbow. Some even put out their favourite china for Trust to come to dine with them and enthrall them about what he knows to be the future for sure. Most believed in Trust like the Gospel; most prayed to Trust without even a single question as to why his verse should be trusted as the truth.

Some fell in love with Trust and stroked his privates as they had just discovered precious diamonds that lay hidden in the undulating hills of the Northern Cape. Most lost their virginity in the dark aisles of cubicles where the stench of ink hovers like a black hawk in the starry night. Some tramps cried thick black mascara which revealed they tried to fool the greatest deceiver this side of life.

“What would we be without Trust?” this fallen fruit called a coconut screams. It speaks in a tongue made for the sole purpose to alienate us from ourselves. See Trust was stirred in the cauldron of semen of evil men with lizard tongues hissing about. Their invisible little toads swim through the air and impregnate men and females with nappy hair, those with crowns of locks, and even those who have stretched their hair. Go on; put your strand of ‘hair’ behind your ear. I dare you. We’ve all been converted by Trust, in the hope that all our lives will be filled with meadows, horses galloping through, and herds of cows grazing about in our endless fields while we listen to ancient stories of our majestic people. Heck, even I have fallen for Trust’s koroba, time and time again. I’ve tried to kill Trust. I read all the reading matters of serial killers trying to get into the psyche of what makes one slaughter others without even a blink of an Iris. But he doesn’t want to die, he got more than nine lives.

I’ve even invited Trust to my lovely townhouse, which Trust financed, in the North and offered him a chilled and stiff drink. I had a shot of Juiger and he had a shot of Cyanide. We then proceeded to lounge on my imported Issey couch; that’s Issey Miyake. We are on a first-name basis. Where was I? Yes on the couch. We smoked the finest of Cuba. It pained me, that the Cyanide didn’t even make Trust flinch. “Top me there, chief,” Trust slurs. Trust must be made of steel, but really is he? Really?

He then muffled something about us needing to scour the dark streets with our dicks in our hands and find the best corner chicks who smell cheap, and use Tata’s moola in exchange for a bit of this and that. He didn’t want no CD to envelope his manhood. He wanted the girl to see flashlights as his flesh entered the girl’s bruised hole. Maybe Trust changes after his nine to five and wears a bloody red and yellow leotard suit with a big ‘S’on his and flies.

That’s why I’ve killed Trust the best way I know how. Every time he waves a carrot in front of me, I put on my blinkers and pretend I’m Uncle Stevie. Every time he tries to hypnotize me, I put on my earphones and pump sum Bra Hugh, son. Trust’s gone now. Don’t be scared, it’s all good. We need no professional mourner this side of town.

Don’t believe the hype. It’s all a fucken lie. Stay true.

May Trust rest in unpeace.

Writer: Mbulelo Nhlapo         Photographer: Khumbelo Makungo