The JRB presents an excerpt from Fluent in the Language of Burial, the debut poetry collection by Thando Fuze.
Fluent in the Language of Burial
Thando Fuze
Dryad Press, 2026
~~~
last call on star-gazing for the women still here
we have come to watch the nightfall of our windows closed last call on star-gazing for the women still here
here definition: in, at, or to this place or position used in a sentence: women have lived here for centuries
a woman is not an alien not an animal to be hunted not a doormat or a punching bag not a lab rat or a careless thing to chew
thing definition: an object that one need not, cannot, or does not wish to give a specific name to used in a sentence: a strange thing happened yesterday
when a man wished his conscience clear he swallowed her name first turning her into a patch of soil
soil definition: the territory of a particular nation used in a sentence: there is a crisis on African soil
the number of failed crops is rising we are hesitant to plant new seeds we cannot grow children on blood-soaked land
children definition: young human beings below the age of puberty or the age of majority used in a sentence: it seems we are failing these children
the village is burning we have mistaken the smoke for a dark cloud we should have known there was fire when the children stopped playing
stop definition: to prevent someone from doing something used in a sentence: the neighbour should stop him before the first strike
should not wait for her cry or the crack of ribs should not wait to see eyes shadowed black or blue or a figure hovering over a body should not wait to count casualties or memories
last call on star-gazing for the women still here night has fallen and we won’t be here for long
~~~
we, descendants of the ageing sun
were raised by a sea of grandmothers whose sole reason for not rising in flood was us, the grandchildren we grew, growing high tides, raging
our grandmothers were bone benders women who cast prayers like spells that held us our grandmothers held us the same way they held their prayers
arms like prophecies smuggling our pain out into the universe
we have been crashing waves since puberty trying to learn the language of our origins this land still fails us and we are coming for all of it a tsunami of raging black joy
because black knows of loss and broken and storm black knows of battered and struggle black knows of guns and dust and rising black knows of breath leaving and giants leaping into transcendence
even then, black love never left us
we cracked jokes that matched the collapsed walls of our homes we made homes of broken dreams
we spread like dandelion seeds we flourished green as the pastures our grandmothers prayed for
and still you ask us if we know magic
~~~
in my culture it is a blessing
The North says my body belongs in hell. The South says my body belongs in a dump. In both spaces, my body is at the mercy of men.
– Koleka Putuma, ‘No Easter Sunday for Queers’
for a child to be named by their grandparents we believe that a child grows into their name and carries their last name like a sword like a light like shelter like love yet last names always seem to outweigh our first
Sigasa Dube Simelane
how we hold out like things to be put up with waiting for the law to declare us acceptable
Mzamelo Daniels Nogwaza
these streets have seen more blood than water for we are taught to breathe better through stab wounds family voids filled with knives and bottles our skulls crushed with stones
Titus Sonjani Mazibuko
even our dead bodies suffer unseen and seen at once it seems to some this death is unable to leave their tongues
Nkonyana Mpanza Halls
when we are lifeless they gather in numbers to call on gods who never knew our names to welcome our souls back into homes that never held us
Ngcukana Qwabe Nkosi
they don’t make prayers for people like us even with our teeth scattered like prayer beads
but still we grow into our names no gutter can contain our stench
Sizakele, our names call out for help we’ve cried enough tears to water the soil
the death of Mbali was never in vain see flowers flourish where she lay
Duduzile’s laughter lingers in her childhood home her mother finds comfort in the sounds
Zandile, we hold your name close as skin our strength multiplied by the sum of your blood
Noxolo, we will fight until your sleep is peaceful
i have wrapped my name in a faith that ascends from gods that believe in me
i will not die here, not today! your names have carried us made light the heaviness of our last names
Sisonke, we pray to the gods to hear us we wear our pride in full colour as we remember our names
- Thando Fuze is a poet, performer, curator and cultural activist whose work explores identity, sexuality, gender justice, politics and the complexities of contemporary Black womanhood. Born and raised in Durban, South Africa, she has established herself as a compelling voice in thrilling spoken-word performances and socially engaged creative practice. Deeply invested in community building and youth empowerment, Fuze founded the SHEfted Minds project in 2016, creating a platform to amplify the voices and creative work of female artists. She has also worked extensively with schools and colleges as a peer educator, using poetry platforms as supportive, transformative spaces for young people to reflect on their often-difficult social realities. Fuze has featured at major local and international festivals and events, among them the Göteborg Book Fair and the Queer Art Festival in Sweden, the All African Women Poetry Festival in Ghana and both Poetry Africa and the Essence Festival: Articulate Africa, in South Africa. Her poetry has been published in anthologies, including Home Is Where the Mic Is and #Hashtag. Fluent in the Language of Burial is her debut poetry collection.
