Remember Your Creator in the Days of your youth.

Dear God,

Before Your throne of grace I stand to present a plea and pledge from my young heart. What a pleasure to know You in my tender years. What joy to sit on Your lap, press my ear against Your heart to hear from You. When others older are still searching for something to quench their thirsty souls, what joy it is to have called off the search in my youth. I found it! You found me, and gave me a drink from the well that will never run dry. Souled out for you when others are for sale. And now I’m on a quest to know you and the power of your resurrection, to be of the Galatians 2:20 kind.


I am always aware of Your splendour. Your majesty is always before me, a vivid picture of the King of Glory seated high and exalted on a throne, the train of Your robe filling the temple. I try to articulate the grandeur I see with my eyes, but words of human wisdom and comprehension fail me. The only that manage to escape my awe struck lips are Holy, Holy is the Lord God almighty, the whole earth is filled with His glory.


My heart is overflowing with You, but I’m young, Lord.  How can I keep my ways pure before You? When they speak profanity, how can I speak praise? When they parade their bodies to be grabbed and defiled by filthy hands, how can I present mine as a living sacrifice from which a sweet smelling aroma rises to meet Your nostrils? When they sit and eat from Jezebel’s table, selling your truth for a piece of her meat, silenced by its morsels, how can I boldly stand on every peak, to speak about the table You have set before me? When youthful passions burn them til they give in to its flames like to funeral pyre, how can I escape without a singe? And then Your still small voice: by living according to Your Word. I will hide Your Word in my heart so I can remember You.


Like Joseph, I will remember You when I’m a prisoner, and remember You still when I’m prime minister. I will flee from sin and leave my coat behind, just so I can take You with me.

Like Shadrack, Meshack and Abednego, I will steel my knees and my will to bow before no god but You. I’m willing to face the fiery furnace with You.

Like David, I will disregard these heels and this suit and dance before You with all my might, not caring who despises me.



Like Timothy, I will not let anyone despise me because of my youth, but I will set an example for the believers in speech that is full of grace and seasoned with salt; in life that is a letter about you, known and read by everyone; in love that is not word or talk, but in deed and truth, in faith that cannot be shaken, and in purity that cannot be accused.

Like the boy Samuel, I will stay in Your temple and heed Your call. Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening. And when fear grips me because of the charge You give me, You will touch my mouth, give me words, extinguish my fear, and tell me not to say I’m only a child, but to go where You send me, and say what You command me.


You’re infinitely bigger than a status update, I cannot possibly contain you in a tweet. But I will remember You with both. I don’t desire my name in lights, they can keep their coat of many colours, I just want You. Let them keep believing their humanisms, pantheisms and atheisms, I’ll keep declaring my Jesus-ism.


While zeal consumes me, and my bones can still carry me, I will remember You, Lord. Remove every dagon and every baal, every Herod and every golden calf before me, and allow me to see You. When familiarity makes my love grow cold, blow into the dying embers and revive them, let me return to my first love. Be imprinted in my heart, so it’s always filled with reverence. Be a constant presence, so I inhale you, and exhale worship. I just want to remember You, Lord.


So that when my lit is dim, and my voice is faint; before I take my last bow and the curtain closes on me; before the ground opens up to receive the dust which it formed; when my lamp is about to be snuffed out, I can say I remembered my Creator, in the days of my youth.


Young, Gifted and Black.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I’m black and never first choice. I’m sorry so I stammer, stutter and pause.

I’m sorry I only managed a C, I’m sorry I left before matric.

I’m sorry my shoes are dusty and that I never got to reading that book.

I’m sorry I left at 3 and didn’t file those reports.

I’m sorry I haven’t won anything, shone at anything, and my trophy cabinet is empty.

You see, my parents were slaves so we grew up on grits and I studied by candlelight and had to walk to school and and and and…

So please pardon me while I sit right here, on the edge of my apathy and excuses, remembering Egypt and blaming Pharaoh. And yet too lazy to make the journey to Canaan. Don’t tell me about milk and honey, I want Egypt’s slave meat. I’m a closet masochist who enjoyed Egypt’s whips. Woe is me. I’m so so sorry.


1976, I’ll never forget!

Rubber bullets and teargas, I’ll never forgive!

Dom passes and bantustans, I’ll never pardon!

I’ll never rise above; I’ll never lose the chains.

And so the holocaust of our minds continues long after the gas chambers have been switched off.


I put it to you that the excuse of apartheid has prescribed, reached and passed its sell by date.

I am not the generational by product of oppression and imperialism. I am the product of predestination, preordainment; I was foreseen, fore willed, fore mentioned, before I was conceived in the mind of my parents, I was conceived in a Holy Trinity caucus. Let us make her in our image and likeness. And so I was fearfully and wonderfully knitted together in my mother’s womb, from the mass of kinky, nappy hair on my head, to the sun kissed chocolate hue of my skin.

I am Deborah, judge and prophetess.

I am Proverbs 31, industrious and virtuous.

I am that phenomenal woman that you’ve heard tell about.

I am the stuff that winners are made of.

I am daughter of a King, apple of His eye, always on His mind, warrior princess.


And I unsheathe my sword, and with a battle cry resonating from the depths of my spirit, raise it to obliterate every word and thought that declares that I am any less.

I am excellence personified, brilliance in brown skin. I shoot disdainful looks at mediocrity, we’re not cut from the same cloth.

Ndodakazi, mbokodo, owaseb’khosini, ndlovukazi.

I make no excuses for my blue blood. I am young, gifted, black, and unapologetic.

I’d like to find the one who said I’m not top class, top ten, and can’t get top billing because  and point them in the direction of this Book. See, it calls me God’s workmanship, co-heir with Christ, branch of the true vine, the Divine DNA strand twists and weaves in continuation in me. So forgive me if I square my shoulders strut like I know who I am. Oh wait, don’t. I’m no apologising.


Come out of hiding, royal nation. The Amistad is empty. You’re not African by God’s oversight, you are adama, moulded from clay. Creation awaits in eager expectation for you to be revealed. Kneel before your Father and allow Him to knight you. Young, gifted, black, and unapologetic.