Blessing - the creative services

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A quick reminder of what Blessing-the creative is all about.

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Opinion piece: Ancestral worship is a fallacy

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Ancestral Worship is a shameful fallacy By Blessing Mhlanga We cannot speak to the dead and there’s no such thing as the living-dead. Rituals involving animal slaughter, sprinkling of blood, drinking of concoction, talking to a dead person on their grave and consulting a sangoma for intervention is a spiritual deception that has enslaved the african people. For me personally, I am extremely ashamed and disgusted by my fellow black people who believe that a dead person has an influence on their failures or prosperity in their lives. Some cultures even believe that the dead are a mediator between God and the living; it’s a shame because they have forgotten that God is the creator of all men and he doesn’t need a human being whom he created to be a mediator to those who are living. According to Truth Magazine article, ‘if you displease the ancestors, it may be that they will kill someone else.’ This doesn’t make sense, why would my ancestors, who were somehow...
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A toxic modernisation

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A toxic modernization If you don’t have that thing, I’m afraid vosho is not your fan. If you can’t lit your dreams, Then not even your blesser can make you feel acer. I have come to know that slay queens are pay keys of myth, who are fancy yet too poor to afford a lace.  I prefer a mellow-bone than a yellow-born who is an angel of booze, a god of twerk and a slave of g-string. It’s better to fill up the dome than to feel like a dom kop, whose calibre emerge from ama-wololo.  I’m telling you, not even gobis’qolo, can...
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The struggle against the shadows

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The struggle against the shadows It's a struggle l always wish was a dream, One that l don't desire to escape either, In a blink of a lazy eye, waters taste bitter, With its source  hiding in the unknown universe, Lonely hills and virgin skies, who can contest? Beneath his waving beard, Lies a tale, one that his blood is willing to conceal, Fleshy thighs, dreamy eyes, it's a time ticking bomb, A thin skin tempts the divine to fall, But still upholds the toxic falls of our foes. Wake up from the deadly sigh, Perhaps you might stand the test of slumber, One that recruit the haughty to rule, One that condemns the innocent visage of us, And feed our lambs withered leaves of the fallen. Perhaps the drivers of our promise have been caged, Chained or brutalized by the modern appalls, If so, woes shall overflow in our children's basket, And Rob them of their wings to cruise above the sky, It's a mountain that we have discounted to level. By Blessin...
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