Posts by kamantha

brutality is a cop out

You know what they did,
you know what we saw,
when we were two stupid stags,
white boys making our way home.

We were laughing, a raucous friendship,
when an airgun rang shots at our heads.
A white man’s arm hung out a flat window,
declaring we should be close to dead.

A group of black children,
in their school uniforms were walking close by.
They began screaming,
while we poorly hid, avoiding the shots at our eyes.

A cop van came by and stopped,
the shots stopped too,
the children pointed in our direction,
where the shots seemed to be coming through.

The policemen, all black, barely explained,
demanding we get in the back of their van,
disobeying, a forbidden option,
when they’re unwilling to understand.

They drove around the block,
speeding and twisting around bends,
throwing us this way and that,
we were alone without family or friends.

They took us to the police station,
interviewing us on the case,
we told them about the white man, the airgun,
we told them about the flat, where we knew he lived.

They listened and ignored,
we were disbelieved without inquiry,
dumped in a brick shell, a holding cell, full of black men,
a cement floor, the stench of sweat, our prison diary.

We were forced to stay in the cell for two days,
our moms rushing to gather money for lawyer fees,
while charges of attempted murder were made,
there was no point to begging on our knees.

A cellmate, his skin dark, eyes darker still,
asked what size my shoes were.
My heart suspended in my throat,
I barked size ten, not knowing for sure.

Hours of sun beat our faces and arms,
drinking water was brown and cloudy,
the broken toilet full of shit and piss,
we had no will to be rowdy.

At night, we slept close,
as the temperature dropped,
the cellmates surrounded us.
I felt like calling TV cops.

The cellmate asked what we were in for,
I could have killed myself.
Murder, I said boldly,
wondering about details I’d need to concoct, shaping my own delf.

The cellmate stared,
examining my face,
as if calculating the size and length of my fib,
of course, he is black, in South Africa he couldn’t possibly trust my race.

To avoid further lies,
I asked him what landed him here.
He said he was walking,
when the police stopped, pushed him into a van, a criminal cure.

He was given no call,
while we were afforded ours.
They shouted at him, beat him in the interview room,
for refusing to agree, he was made to see stars.

His jeans were cheap,
his shoes needing repair,
a sheen of sweat on his brow,
matting his exhausted, winding hair.

Suddenly, the world felt black, black like him,
truth and justice were empty words,
in a world of an invisible caste,
bad things happened to innocence, poverty was a curse.

These cops wore uniforms, state given,
badges of honour we were told,
but they were setting up the cellmate,
for a crime he knew nothing of, a criminal mould.

And how many of us would see cellmate’s dark skin,
his class, in his clothes and face,
and presume his guilt,
supporting the pain inflicted by the state-functioning mace.

Then it hit me. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no,
we, black and white, were in the same cell,
they’re doing to us, what they do to black you.
I am in white, what’s usually black hell.

Every vessel contracted,
I began to feel faint,
my mother worked two jobs,
how would she rescue me from this place?

When a Sandton lawyer arrived,
quoting sections off cash our mothers gave him.
I knew relief was knowing I was still not black,
and poor, the double kick in the shin.

But even now,
when I see a police car or officers,
dressed in blue,
I resist the urge to bolt, to run, thinking it can only get worse.

I am not a kid anymore,
I am a man, far from home,
trial biking on an empty parking lot,
before I head back to our apartment door.

A cop car drives slow up the road,
and I immediately flush pale,
I get off my bike,
wishing I could turn and bail.

The cops drive up,
as close as can be,
looking me in the eyes,
I could have almost peed.

My first thought was,
what will I do if they get off their car,
instruct me to enter theirs,
suggesting I broke the law.

Will they beat me once inside,
bake or exaggerate evidence,
can we afford an attorney,
we are not Nordic, oh Heavens.

With my heart pounding in my chest,
they made a U-turn and left,
I could have cried,
a grown man thankful that we never met.

People think they know the harm of police gone wrong,
back home and all over the world.
They think they know corrupt defence,
because of a man choked to death, so-called justice served.

They know nothing,
they have not lived.
When you’re innocent and lower class,
no fancy lawyer on call, safety guaranteed, a fun twist.

No, to my cellmate I would say,
you think we are so different, you think we all don’t see,
when you’re born lower class like me, my broer,
we are more like you, black with lighter skin, human but barely.

They will dump you in a cell,
pile crimes you’ve never heard of,
they have the power, you’re expendable,
you must do as you’re told.

Cellmate, this won’t stop until you gather,
fight back against the lie,
we know better, cellmate,
we share the same brutalised hands held high.

The SARS protests are a good start,
our African giants know what’s up.
They have seen the back of vans or cars,
the sharp tongue of the state whip.

I know there’s many that look like me,
who have done you wrong so mercilessly,
but trust, power is what they actually crave,
race is a knee-jerk excuse, seek full truth, full pertinency.

I avoid words like trauma,
I hate being a victim at all,
But when my heart races at the sound of a siren.
A memory unfair echoes through my mental halls.

To the invisible, the poor,
I see you, cellmate,
I think of you, I remember,
whenever I hear of brutal handcuffs choking a young man’s fate.

Most often, I try not to think,
of what they did to me, to you.
I push out the memory of those nights,
and I hope you do too.

If you made it out, I hope,
I don’t know, I pretend, I have to pretend in my head,
that all went well for you,
as I settled home, grateful and sick, in my childhood bed.


In honour of the lived experience of my Mr to my Mrs.

The ice cream shop

We opened the ice-cream shop on Tuesday, and the third Ice Age began on Wednesday*. When I say, third Ice Age, I am actually referring to our first winter in Sweden. And when I say, our first winter in Sweden, I mean the snow blizzard of this morning.

Ruan says I have a tendency to exaggerate. I say hyperbole is a way of processing pain. We agree to disagree, which I suspect is why our marriage has lasted this long. What I will admit to is that I was ill prepared for the blizzard. In my defence, South African weather has three variations: warm, far less warm and roasting in the fiery ovens of humid hell.

Ruan and I have been in Sweden for nine months and when winter began, thick snowflakes gently drifted to the ground, performing what I can only describe as nature’s rendition of Swan Lake. Sure, it was colder than what I was used to, but I managed to get by with jogger pants and a T-shirt underneath a puffy winter jacket.

This morning was a different story. On the road to the ice cream shop, a short thirty metres from our apartment, tiny crystals swirled across the sky, flying at my face like needle-like daggers ready to stab my face. The constant gusts of wind made it harder to breath and my eyes watered for reasons I cannot yet explain.

“We are beyond the wall, man,” I groan, dusting off the snow from my jacket. My face is soaking wet.
“Winter is here,” he says, understanding my reference as I unzip my jacket.
“My face is sore and I am crying for some reason,” I gingerly pat the tender apples of my cheeks. “We are so beyond the wall!” I lament. “Who is going to save us? Where is Jon Snow?”
“He is in England, love.” Ruan is watching the inside of a huge mixer. “Stuck in a cost of living crisis like the rest of the northerners.”
“You mean like the rest of the world.” I hang up my jacket, beanie and slip off my boots at the back entrance of the shop. “You know what I think?” I say, sliding on the slippers we brought with us. “Swedes don’t need apartheid to understand mass injustice. Surviving winter every year is their version of mass brutality.”
“Dramatic much?” Ruan smiles.
“Don’t make light of human suffering, hon.”
“Anusha, I hope you’re reminding yourself that this is our first winter here.” Before I can pipe up with a response, Jonas walks in through the customer entrance. Jonas lives in the same apartment building as we do. By all accounts, Jonas hates immigrants. I only say this because our American neighbour, the forever friendly Michael, told Ruan that Jonas incessantly complains about immigrants in the building. On the group chat restricted to apartment owners, Jonas takes issue with how many foreigners are in the building, how many foreigners are not as fluent in Swedish as he and has shared a number of theories that the laundry room worked much better before immigrants lived in the building. Michael says Jonas hates Lidl for the number of foreigners that shop there and from our own encounters Jonas has never greeted, smiled or acknowledged us in anyway.

I’d love to say we are superior in our consideration but Ruan, raised on so much toxic masculinity that he might as well have been fed rage through his mother’s breast milk, plays chicken with Jonas on the pavements leading to our home. Ruan is certain Jonas intentionally refuses to politely walk on one side of the pavement to accommodate other people walking by, and for his refusal, Ruan purposely moves to the centre when he sees Jonas on the roads.

The one time, Jonas walked out of the elevator, past me and another neighbour—the long standing apartment dweller and equally Swedish, Elsa, and as Jonas moved through the second door of the building, Elsa muttered the word, “trångsynt” under her breath. Elsa is about twenty years younger than me, with plum-coloured hair and a tiny tattoo of a flying bird marking her left wrist. Elsa is Magda’s daughter. She switches from Swedish to English with the ease of a UN translator and always smiles at our son when we happen to see her in the building.
Jonas and Elsa are polar opposites.

I don’t believe Elsa expected me to hear her that day or that I would search the Internet to understand the word’s meaning. Often used to describe bigotry or prejudice, the word trångsynt shocked me. Then it frightened me. I have before raised my concerns with Ruan about how ideas might influence citizen behaviour toward us, but Ruan merely repeats his stubborn adage of ons is die mense (we are the people), suggesting that we are equally human and therefore equally deserving. We shouldn’t, to his mind, pander to any suggestion that we are not. Something about Ruan’s Afrikaner ancestry (a mix of German, Dutch and French descent) makes him bullish at the core. Afrikaners are those Africans that will not back down from a fight, even when it’s for their own good. I hate conflict. Maybe it’s the Indian ancestry buried in me, but I would prefer more cooperation and understanding.

“Hej Jonas,” I say, smiling. He ignores me and stares through the glass counter at the compartments of ice cream on display. He mumbles something. “Ursäkta mig, I am still learning Swedish…,” I say, hoping that he catches my drift. I hear Ruan sigh loudly and aggressively behind me. Jonas looks up at me and his mouth has disappeared into a thin line. He says nothing. The moments pass between me and him as I awkwardly smile, waiting for Jonas to make his order while he stares at me unblinking.

“Wat wil jy hê?” Ruan mutters in Afrikaans from behind me. It’s rude to ask someone what they want so bluntly so I start rambling cheerfully about how good the peanut caramel flavour is, scooping it up into a small cup for Jonas to try. He takes the cup and tastes the ice cream, looking away from me and Ruan, he concentrates as though he is the head chef of an expensive restaurant.

I hear the faint chime of the doorbell and see our neighbour Magda walk in. She glances at Jonas and her gentle smile vanishes. Pulling off her gloves, Magda stands away from the door, at arm’s length from Jonas. Seeing them together, I immediately notice how good looking a couple they would make. While we have lived in the building for nine months, Michael has filled Ruan in on all the gossip and inside info. Magda is a department manager at one of the big Swedish banking firms. She is divorced, has never remarried and summers in Denmark every year where her sister lives. Jonas runs his own automotive mechanic shop, managing a small staff that fixes cars privately. He is a widower. I notice that Magda and Jonas have the same misty grey eyes. While Magda is a willowy beauty in deeply lined soft skin, Jonas has a towering physique and haphazard spiky hair. I catch Magda’s eye and she smiles warmly at me. I wonder if a cup of ice cream will work on them both. But hey, there’s only one way to find out.

“Hej Magda, would you like to try our peanut caramel flavour? It’s a free tasting.”
“Okay,” she says and I hand her a small cup. “Michael told us he asked you to manage the shop. How is it going?”
“He showed us the ropes,” I glance back at Ruan who was actually the one taking mental notes in that meeting, “But it is our first week, we may burn the place down tomorrow.” Magda does not laugh. I find myself feeling a different kind of awkward. “I’m just joking,” I say quickly and she nods at me like a teacher to an odd child.
“Michael sa att glassen var gratis,” Jonas proclaims loudly. Before I can switch my brain to better concentrate on his words and decipher its possible meaning, Magda responds.
“Michael actually said any ice cream we buy would be discounted by fifty percent not given to us for free.” Jonas quickly looks at Magda and they’re now staring at each other. It feels like an old Western stand off. I am hoping no one dies.
“Michael won’t mind if we give you both free ice creams,” I cut in. “Ruan and I can cover the cost.”
“Excuse me?” The tone of Ruan’s voice is what I imagine matches his face, even though I don’t look back to find out.
“No!” Magda insists but Jonas’s face, for the first time ever, peels into a smile. It feels like a win.
“Yes, yes, of course,” I say, looking across at my two neighbours. “We can call it our treat.”
“Are you sure?” Magda says.
“Yes, Anusha, are you sure?” I glance back at Ruan and there’s the steady glare that says, he is pissed.
“Of course,” I repeat, dishing out the ice creams and handing one to Magda and Jonas respectively. They file out of the shop and Ruan sighs, muttering the words, you’re too nice. He ignores me for the rest of the day.

The shop’s closing time comes off the back of quiet boredom and once the clock hits three o’clock, we begin clearing up. The concentration of work and our quiet chatter over dinner plans make us deaf to what must have been the chime of the doorbell. Magda and Jonas I notice walk in to the store as a single unit, their bodies intimately close together.
“We wanted to come back and pay you for the ice creams,” Jonas announces, with a pleasant contentment to his face. “We don’t want you getting into trouble with Michael.” Did he say “we”?
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” I say, waving at Jonas as he takes out his wallet. “Did you enjoy the ice creams?”
“Yes!” They both beam.
“Very good,” Jonas says, looking to Magda who places her hand on Jonas’s shoulder, leaning her head on him. “We were talking about holding a party for you two.”
“For us?”
“For everyone in the building,” Magda explains. “A day out.”
“A snow day!” Jonas smiles.
“You can bring your children and we can spend the morning outside, drinking some hot beverage.”
“Glögg.” Jonas nods eagerly.
“Or hot chocolate for the children,” Magda adds.
“I can make snacks for us to eat.” I look to Magda.
“Sure!” Jonas laughs. “It would be nice to try some Indian delights.” I don’t mention that I am not Indian but a South African. The camaraderie feels too good to mess up with details. “And we would like to know more about your…” Jonas looks past me, “people.” Ruan is as silent as the grave.
“We have checked the weather forecast,” Martha says, “and although anything can happen, we should try our luck tomorrow.”
“It will be a fika date,” I say and both Magda and Jonas say “Ja” for yes. The pair lift their hands to say goodbye and stride out of the shop. As the door shuts, Ruan speaks.
“What just happened?”
“Our friendly neighbours invited us to a get together,” I say turning to face him.
“Did you see Jonas?”
“How sweet of him to offer to pay us for the ice creams.”
“He spoke English to you.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Babe, the man has seen us hundreds of times in nine months and look at him.” He points to the wall-sized window that faces the empty street. “And Magda?” Ruan shakes his head, as if sorting through his thoughts. “Do you think they had sex?” he whispers.
“What?” I smile.
“She was hanging onto him like they were long lost lovers.”
“Love changes people, babe. Real love can change the world.”
“Don’t give me that starry eyed BS, you saw what I saw. Do you think they were high? Why are you so nonplussed about this? We are witnesses to a body snatching incident.”
“Maybe Magda and Jonas were inspired to be more open minded.” I glance back and look at the ice creams, recalling the pinch of old magic I added to the the milk.
“Jonas has done a complete 180 on us,” Ruan muses.
“Yeah.” I scoop myself some peanut caramel to taste. “Who knows? By the time Michael comes back from his business trip, the world might be a kinder place.”

*Writing prompt courtesy of Creative Writing in English

Architecture of love

Imagine my surprise when I learned,
Gothenburg was pronounced Yothe-bury, a different name.
How can you let us get away with mispronouncing this place?

She smiled, awkwardly I guess,
never considering Swedish words,
were anglicised the world over.
There was so much we presumed about those relegated to Viking and their serfs.

What we don’t see are the pillars, windows, walls of love,
built to serve the people across class.
The housing projects that match earth’s slopes,
including libraries, pools, forests and open lawns, making bulk brick or concrete estates a laugh.

Every road has pavements and bicycle lanes,
private property, whether walled in or fenced off,
is kept minimal by roaming rights.
We should be able to enjoy the land and beaches, a fine sight.

Sweden’s people, their elected reps,
largely control the sale of alcohol, thank goodness.
It’s illegal to carry guns on the street,
including knives or weaponised scissors.

The state regulates rental prices in public housing and private property,
making sure people have access to affordable housing,
everyone should be able to live,
to resist a money-making suffocate, round ring.

Most schools are public, municipal run,
not the for-profit private institutes at every turn.
Here again, this is to ensure all children, irrespective of class,
enjoy fairly equitable roots as they learn.

Did you know, school aftercare is managed by the state,
while schooling is free, aftercare comes at an expense,
but if you’re poor, your cost is equal to your family income, verified of course,
if you’re rich, your cost is limited, which makes fair, good sense.

Olof challenged sex and gender inhibitions,
suggesting democratic rights should be enjoyed by all.
He supported worker unions,
and questioned the geopolitical domination that enthralls.

The architecture was built a long, long time ago,
and while cracks, shifts, anger and hurt over governance,
rises up in waves from the working and middle class,
what is clear is that the impetus to serve was there, a fight against ruling class stubbornness.

A house was built to serve an entire country,
not a single Swede understands engineered economic mass exclusion and exploitation,
when 90% of your country is deliberately undermined, exploited and brutalised,
how can they fully appreciate the impact of South African pillars that serve some over many, the dominance of self-absorbed ruminations.

The flying critics that spread their wings are woefully misled,
while the criticisms of South African governance are true,
their substance however diverges from a total review of systems, control, processes and influence,
that see domestic and foreign holdings, an expansion exacerbating gross inequities anew.

If Sverige’s architecture were different,
if a false love was built and shaped to serve indecent minority enrichment,
ABBA’s country might have been another South Africa, smaller but similarly divided,
a working class much alike and equally, vociferously astringent.

So bless the pillars of love,
the windows, walls, stairs and doorways that were built.
Take heart in knowing Sweden, that once a ruling class cared enough,
to build a house that serves all fairly equitably, accessibly, a real home.

I am not Indian

I am not Indian.
Be sure, I will resist the forcing of your disguise,
the one on your face,
your ethnic or religious claims,
an obvious mask for the old gross concept of race.

I am not Indian.
My skin may be brown, my hair is black.
I have never been to the country you speak of.
My great-great-grandparents knew their way around,
but I am not them—a people I never met, I no longer desire to mimic their lost love.

I am not Indian,
not Bangladeshi, Pakistani,
nor Sri Lankan or Nepali,
I get that colours across states can seem the same,
but I refute this obsession with ancestral origin, pretending I am a jolly Bolly.

I am not Indian,
racially, religiously,
physically, by tax payments or sound,
I hold no greater claim to a country,
when my centuries of strangeness to the land is well-found.
And so, this word diaspora only counts,
if I called India mom.
My humid mother ate magwinyas for lunch,
so where is this diaspora theory coming from?

In what way is diaspora being used,
to rank human beings into deserving and less so.
Must I pour my grief onto Muslim or Christian Indians,
suggesting Hindu roots,
makes me more human, more acceptable.

Must I allow nebulous race,
peeking through ethnic, religious, colour claims,
propping up policies and processes that exclude,
or undermine some, while guaranteeing me an easier race.

Listen, I am not Indian,
I don’t cling to racial loyalties that hide behind ethnicity, religion or colour.
Every life matters.
Every power abuse, structural or incidental, requires I dig deep into knowledge.

I am not Indian,
yet, I reserve the freedom to criticise Indian policy as much as I please,
the policies and practices of any country.
I am done with this ethnic race colour fixation, amongst the springboks I paid my fees.

Do you get it? I am not Indian,
my husband is not European or politically white,
our son sure ain’t Anglo-Indian, coloured or mulatto,
this weird constant snacking on man-made race bites.

Hyper-generalising culture,
racialising religion and look-and-sound-a-likes,
in Tunisia, India, across Africa, Europe and Arab slave households,
please, keep my family out of this long dark night.

I am not Indian.
Yes, I celebrate Diwali, eating food with my hand like a pro.
My husband, who you seek to separate from me,
can eat hot food too and knows more Durban slang than any Indian would,
I won’t have these lines drawn between us, for me this is a no-go.

I am not Indian.
If you’re afraid of skin or accents,
worried about difference, an overpowering threat.
Please, first engage with how and why race matters to you,
We can’t be—shouldn’t be—responsible for your international, national inner discontent.

I am not Indian,
My son is not Asian,
he is not criminal or corrupt.
Loneliness, boisterousness, temper flares are human,
let’s keep that in mind before we assume or interrupt.

I am not Indian,
I was born an African woman,
let’s stop pretending racist, sexist ideas are rare and stay at home,
when last year’s economic minister suggested abortions for African women, his Suomi voters surely saw this as a win.

This man with his peers,
holding the quill, determining my likened fate,
only when he was publicly caught,
ignoring what racist idea means, he said he made an immature mistake.

But it wasn’t a mistake, was it?
He is not intellectually disabled or fresh out of a time machine,
the policies of the 1930s, 1960s,
like danmark’s sterilisations in green lands is what he says should be real.

And if your only formula for economic success,
is exploitation and cruelty in suits,
the old favourite remixed when innovation and neoliberalism should be reviewed,
then the world is in big trouble, severe indifference will turn into philosophical brutes.

When stateless migrants are funnelled,
through ’23’s E-and-U agreements,
costing hundreds of millions, money flushed down like poo-poo,
to struggling or opportunistic African states,
good people are selling human bodies, while complaining about population age in their citizen review.
Focussed on white women’s birth and fertility rates,
how frightening,
when the people in charge say they’re managing incoming threats,
while ignoring the mass grave of migrants in the same countries they call enlightening.

What they do to others, they can do to you,
if the time comes and the seething masses point to your bus.
Will it matter whether you paid your taxes, said please and thank you,
forcing you to find shelter with nothing but your clothes, you too will stand nonplussed.

And the people who voted for this,
will pretend that they didn’t see the ugliness coming,
that migration, crime and economic suffering,
was why toward suited swastikas they went running.

But the truth is and was,
they knew, just like they did in the 1930s,
they knew enough but chose indifference,
hoping to benefit from whatever was done to claw back prosperous streets.

I am not Indian,
but I understand more than most the tram ride between fear and race,
I grew up breathing in toxic fumes,
born to a normal that was a neo-Nazi capitalist state.
If I can offer any advice, let me say this,
fear is human, there’s no shame in anger or worry,
but ideas birth emotions, it’s important you interrogate, your biggest threat isn’t curry.

Let’s talk about financial markets, dependence on economies,
tell me how you hold business accountable, prevent geopolitical wars.
What success could your climate change migration plans have,
if you’re excluding, undermining, bringing weapons and death to other countries’ shores.

I am not Indian, friend,
Like you, I am human, nothing less or more.
Sleeping soundly is harder these days, this could happen to me,
if we were the many desperate, destitute or just plain poor.



Imagine, dark child

Switch off these endless, droning docu-volumes,
that bask in the everyday butcher knife,
of the breeding, killing, sleeping, bleeding,
the every day of our African wildlife.

Turn away from episodes on social mediums,
that beg for audience justification,
of advertising sponsors,
offering oblique African revelations,
devoid of historical, political context,
or economic critical analysis,
ignoring geopolitical ripples,
and how it’s left African countries on dialysis.
These critics, black, brown or white,
who tell the world of Africa’s bleak culture,
an inhuman, backwards, primitive set of values,
lazily disconnecting systems, processes, practices and policies, their voices often dulcour.

No, please sit alone,
in the African sun or under her night sky,
and ask yourself,
for once, ask why,
Africa does not have its own streaming service,
a world news, entertainment and docu-series giant,
that covers world best teacher and principal awards,
innovations from everyday items,
like building bricks from plastic forms,
exposing Africa’s child and the world,
to playwrights, mathematicians, architects,
engineers and singers,
a love for self, a voice that is yours being kindled.

Show me a blockbuster movie on |Xam history,
their loves, their southern African life,
juxtaposing this with their ruminations or current fights.

Show me a modern take, animated or live action,
of imaginative African lore,
Mawu-Lisa, Moon and Sun twins of Benin,
or Sango the thunder god, perhaps he knew Thor?

Tell me a story about days old,
the Mapungubwe traders or kings, an old world coming to life,
enflame our hearts by building a new song,
we deserve to refocus our minds.

Give me a book series of a teen superhero,
KwaMashu born, Section K,
son of a construction worker who solves local mysteries,
saving the day, with his own Aunt May.

Show me love and pain, joy and sorrow,
show me rage and peace, success and failure,
in every colour, every African thread,
our humanity to be seen, full and equal, don’t be a vailer.

You think it doesn’t matter,
you think you don’t care, get in the ring,
you’re playing catch-up, dark babe,
in a world that’s determined to only make money from your earth, your skin.

Don’t believe me? Search for stories about African elephants,
every beagle and Alaskan malamute,
will flood your brain waves on this mammal’s life and plight,
without mentioning the descendants of African ways, the people of note.
And so, Africa cannot rely on friendly others to tell their story.
Her children must rise to do it themselves.
Business, political, civil society might,
must lift up the unseen and unheard from the shelves.

Look abroad,
countries don’t prioritise English, French or Portuguese,
over their home-grown tongue,
it makes no sense if that’s a secondary dialect of ease.
So why can’t Africans have municipal libraries and docu-series in Zulu or Igbo,
Swahili or Pedi,
why can’t company press releases be in Kituba,
who said we can’t change how we are fed.

Who says we have to use Sam’s song?
What about an African branded cell phone?
The kind we source, we build, distribute and pay for,
Why would that be wrong?

Sit for a while and dream with me,
our imagination soaring like a black-winged kite.
Consider an Africa dark and free,
instead of being relegated to hunger, exploitation and strife.

Scrutinise the voice,
the one in your head and heart,
a whispering, slithering mamba telling you equal is assimilation,
ignoring the possibility of a fresh, collective start.

You are whoever you see yourself as,
confronting the source of hurt pride,
are you capable, dark and lovely,
or desperate, dark and ugly,
it is up to you, the system, processes and policies you choose will decide.

His song

what are you saying,
through our cities, suburban buildings,
rushing through open windows,
a whistling, howling elder,
telling us to look up and all around.

you, who bends the mighty trees,
rustling their leaves.
you, who blows sand,
against our skin,
in case we begrudge,
our seaside blessings.

you, who shove gusts,
through narrow paths,
pushing us back, reminding us,
how small we are,
how fragile,
wee bodies that can fall apart.

you’re generous too, we must agree,
offering us a cool breeze,
on a walk, cycle or jog.
a refreshment from weariness,
that helps us keep going,
when all we want to do,
is stop.

you sweep fallen leaves across our path,
serving notice,
all things come to an end.
and we must,
each and everyone,
prepare for rebirth,
the chance of a cyclical mend.

what do you want us to see, o’mighty winds,
the wretched encroachment of our modern ways,
across your green hills or brown dunes,
across and within your blue waves.

you whisper and shout,
I hear you inside and out
while here,
blinded by screens.
you call me, you call us,
loud as can be,
to sit with our maker,
in silent reverence,
amongst the holy pollen and weeds.

democracy unanswered

He said1: The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum – even encourage the more critical and dissident views. That gives people the sense that there’s free thinking going on, while all the time the presuppositions of the system are being reinforced by the limits put on the range of the debate.

Why South Africa,
are the terms of the IMF loan that secured our democracy,
not widely and publicly known,
when their former head honcho of the economics dared to say,
it seems a form of financial colonialism is how they played.

Why did we beg for another US$4.3 billion belly chain,
then adding another US$750 million in weight.
US$1 billion in 2023, our South African neolibs,
sure love wearing colonial shackles, red resistance is far too late.

Here’s a question: what terms were and are attached to each IMF-World Bank loan?
Our resources, land, government—people—debt,
a promised just system denied,
our honour-bound media say little, their critiques clearly spent.

And why didn’t we learn in high school or varsity,
about the trickle-down neoliberalism,
the-privatise-your-economy road,
we were led to follow back home.
To me it seems, there’s a media culture,
of being economical or uncomfortable with the broad truth,
that must be confronted by us,
a light must be shone at the top roots.

Why in the 2010s, were we not told about the US government funded orgs,
financing hundreds of thousands—millions—to our media or corruption watchdogs.
While streams of coverage and research pointed to Rus’kis,
relevant I am sure,
the so-called independent media, academia,
failed to mention these opinion-influencing investors offshore.

They also failed to mention—a bit too conveniently—that since 2016,
US government-funded orgs were collaring British media,
to the tune of £2.6 million worth,
bringing into question how wide was the foreign influence network.
But sure, tell South Africans to focus solely on a shirtless horse rider,
an incorrigible authoritarian strider.

Ask yourselves, why did our decades-old politico opposition,
prioritise the farmers call to end labour action immediately,
while remaining silent,
seemingly uninterested in their policies for decades,
about the farmworker assaults, murders,
mental abuse, deprivation of voting rights,
and structurally-created indignities.

Seriously, we heard no shouting from them,
about the 119 farmworker murders,
since 2000, our democratic fray,
crimes that outnumber farmer murders in KZN,
of the same iliad, a sarcastic hooray!
We certainly don’t see documentaries being done,
blasted by numerous social media influence-fans,
covering the graves, Adam Pieterses’ hands,
of the Noord, Oos, Central, Wes kaap land,
being dragged, beaten, stabbed, shot by landowners,
who get to plead genocide, but always and only for one side.

The murders of:
Mam who opposed the expansion of a coal mine,
Bazooka who pushed back on titanium digging, which should have been fine.
Dorothy who was fighting for the rights of the poor in her village,
or the 25 people of Abahlali BaseMjondolo, fighting landlessness, housing,
and social injustices.
Malibongwe organising contract mine workers that deserved a collective voice,
where is our award-winning documentary about this phenomenon?
Is this only a few? How would we know?
Our independent media don’t investigate the true scale or depth,
like their many politico fans,
all lives matter in South Africa, just not equally at best.

And for how long has this been going on?
No, seriously, I am asking because most of us don’t see this stuff in the news.
And so, at what point,
does journalism in South Africa become propaganda by omission,
or through minimal coverage,
an agenda-setting ruse.

Good intentions exist but let’s face facts, when crime in rural communities was discussed,
we were led to believe that only one group of people—those with means—are innocent enough,
for our outrage, our concern, protests in urban centres galore.
We understand trauma, for sure,
crime unacceptably violent or cruel,
but what are the politico-media omitting,
from the public’s full view.

All the while, business and rainbow political fans,
hanner aan about national unity, and warn us over songs sung.
In hindsight we’re left wondering,
how much of this was painful trauma exploited,
crocodile tear-soaked, politico PR stunts.
Masking politico-business contempt for any land reform,
turning away from farmworker lived experiences,
protecting upper-class business interests,
both domestic and foreign allegiances,
when country loyalty, a commitment to ma Africa,
required rigorous analysis,
and commitment to what is needed.

Talking about the unseen,
I appreciate the ICJ court case,
that revealed laws on war crime and human rights to be a sham,
maybe, just maybe, that was the point for our elder fam.
But let’s be honest, politico rulers,
during a pre-election run-up, this ongoing starvation-design and mass murder,
was a timely distraction, from home-grown disorder.
The gluttonous or shambolic counts against you,
are innumerable at this point,
but did you really mean what you said,
or were you playing political chess,
scoring check points.

Because what ever happened to the warning,
that anyone who flies to murder as many of “them” as can be,
will be arrested in-country for partaking in murder overseas,
why now do people say,
what-about-ism Sudan or Mali or Congo instead,
the last time we checked, al-aqsa,
is not the foreign government funding our media,
certainly not funding those responsible in Sudan’s crisis,
ya hear.

But in Mali,
there are strong ripple-effect connections,
to powers outside ma Africa.
The full picture of world financing structures, regional conflicts,
the arming of different sides, cannot go unseen for much longer.
In Congo, the arrow points to global agreements,
African neighbours like Rwanda,
which detail no one seems to include in their Congo-deflection,
sneaky anacondas.

And talking about games, you politico rulers won’t mention that time,
when emails revealed the disgust of your lead,
toward mineworkers who,
live worse than animals kept as house pets, in a country of Madiba fealty.
The workers and their, what was it again, dastardly criminal acts,
compared to good ol’ Woofles are not worth much consider-respect.
M’Lady remove-their-ovaries and your lead have at least that in common.
They both it seems, don’t think the working class, mostly black,
are human enough to honour.

You hide behind your names, skin and hair,
but we see the chosen inactions, policies and processes, a kakky derriere,
the media’s game, an added affront to our,
freedom-post-apartheid misnomer.

Tell us about our rainbow justice system, my friend:
our police, courts and imprison-ment.
our people-first mass media and so-called watchdogs,
choosing front-page investigations and ads for days,
on your goop goop friends of Taj Mahal chalets,
or the undermining of Es-gaan in numerous ways,
the potholes,
the eat-as-much-as-you-can-carry scandals, manure,
but interestingly an entire system since 1994,
is left uninterrogated, without much hee haw.
They don’t investigate how deep the tunnel leads,
when men, mostly black,
mostly working or lower-middle class are forced behind bars,
some for crimes they didn’t commit.
We don’t discuss interrogation techniques, laws ignored,
what-is-in-it-for-me power abuse, looking the other way for those complicit.
Maybe for our media the justice system is of no import,
not when child torture sites in countries where consortiums grow,
they chose more than seventy-years of silence,
as those buying our South African clover, a household name no more.
And then you wonder why we don’t bother to vote,
kak and kakier have been our only two choices for hope.

To be clear, the issue this year, is the influence of those with greater systemic control.
What do laws or democratic sovereign statehood matter at all.
A priest can fly overseas, before our country’s national election,
attending political conferences in foreign economies,
saying to foreign political financiers,
that he, an unelected upper-middle class individual,
sees our country, our democratically-elected gov,
as a diplomatic proxy for eye-ran,
mind you, without proper proof in hand,
suggesting that this diplomatic war
was the most serious threat facing a foreign land,
a foreign economy,
a foreign government, that South Africa’s people did not vote for—last I checked.

Innit interesting,
how invisible strings work.
For how long…
How many people back home have citizenship,
yet are pursuing the desires and needs of foreign interests.
Dare anyone criticise this,
as anti-democratic or just plain dodge,
they are suddenly a terrorist. Definition, please?
Or a Marxist conspiracist who knows nought.

Because let’s be honest,
do people like this fly overseas,
to criticise the foreign military bases, like AfriCom,
a growing pestilence, covering our ma Africa’s skin.
Do they stand on stage and rage about the 750 military bases,
including the 145 that Britain’s stuck with,
or voice concern about the man,
a foreign rep who told a UK crowd,
that they would do their level best.
He said, we won’t wait for him to do those things to begin to push back.
So is independent elections a thing here or anywhere in the world, I guess no cares, that’s a wrap.

I only ask because the wilfully silent media think it somehow appropriate,
that our politico opposition held private meetings with foreign economies,
supposedly asking for monitoring of this year’s elections,
never first mentioning their concern to our independent monitoring body, their round-robin smells of foreign influence asked of neol-lib monopolies.

And never mind that soon after politico opposition’s correspondence with stars and stripes,
a bipartisan bill was placed before that country’s congress,
suggesting that South Africa sides with malign actors,
the same phrase used in their letter, their African games leaving a stain still sombrous.

I don’t see the same virulent African unelected, elected or media concern,
voicing disapproval for the coup attempt, staring stars and stripes, in the DRC in our election year.
Raising questions about the private pal aunty,
who held a Davos meeting with 150 global tech leads,
underscoring the need for international solidarity,
while most of our world’s information, South Africa’s included,
is controlled and held by these tech-based, multinational firms.
I don’t see any African priests, politico-business leads,
traveling to stand on stage,
to mention their worry,
over tech patterns favouring one set of shared social info and ads,
some ads calling for the genocide of the walled-in clans,
or calling for women and children and the elderly to be wiped out,
or the use of these tech platforms to organise violent attacks in 2021, no need to shout,
deleting, removing or shadow-banning,
suspending, prevented from commenting,
but don’t worry, implicated media, Davos and declared so-called technical issues,
have nothing in common, it’s all in our head,
just be a good girl or boy, we hear you say,
be a well-behaved Gen-X, Millennial or Gen-Zed.

Foreign control and influence like this,
the nationwide continent-wide consequences of this kind,
these conflicts of interest,
is considered where South Africa,
across our increasingly guileful media,
who fail to mention, for instance,
pal aunty’s winning contracts,
that allows access to Africans’ encyclopaedias,
like the World Food Programme, an NHS England data platform,
or the sixty-nine Euro docs that relate to its Euro reach, a new norm.
The same pal aunty that is being criticised for its icy involvement,
in how immigrants across the atlantic were treated.
The same aunty whose military platform,
can consider the range of weapons with the right capacities,
making battle damage assessments or estimates,
that is being used in hot wars as we speak, good luck to us human inanimates.

Or how about the prophetic priest,
who gets government contracts,
from the foreign gov financing our media,
who also reeled-in national industries like banking and finance,
from the UK and Myanmar,
India and now Slovenia,
while the founding father sends eye-dee-eff,
tens of millions.
No, media? Possible vested interests, not worth a second-guess?
Ah, the use of white phosphorous,
burning you from the inside, blurring your sight…what a mess.

I’m going to say fam, this sounds like inconvenient truths,
our trusted media choosing to turn their cheek.
Their lips are sealed shut,
when it comes to the full beat.
Whether state financed or foreign bought,
there’s plenty of higher-ups feeding us blinkered views, undercutting democratic freedoms, selling us out.
And what does that mean for democracy, yo,
I don’t think we are ready for that convo.

Getting back home,
what is capital flight,
tell us, South African bedmates, please do,
The US$329 billion estimate that went bye-bye till 2018,
at a time we were meant to fly.
Tell us about below-inflation wages,
and whether the Marikana miners were the tip of the iceberg.
No more convoluted stories about how business works

How in the seven hells,
could the business gods live with themselves,
allegedly fixing foreign exchange profits,
when our masses are barely alive,
living in lower-class coffins.

What is happening to the investigation into agricult,
in a country where working class boere sigh,
over food prices they can no longer afford.
What did they say again,
all the way back in 2000-and-9,
liberalisation hasn’t necessarily created competitive markets.
Is this the same prioritising private interests, the neoliberalism,
we were saddled with when rainbow nation was a common line.
And within how many industries,
was this the case.
Lest we forget, we have had no Zondo Commission,
about this neoliberalism,
despite this being the system producing our outcomes to date.

Why only recently are we finding out about high wage gaps,
in some industries where economic contributions,
don’t justify management’s comfy naps.

In 2018—twenty-four years in—South Africa ranked fourth in the world,
in the fucking world, dude,
for the highest wage gaps between executives and average workers.
In a country, where most of us are employed,
by these profit-focused berserkers.
Worse, we were only ranked below countries like the US and UK,
that are listed as “first-world”,
not a “third-world” gainstay.
Ranking below us were Canada, China,
Germany, even Spain, for Pete’s sake,
such listings surely make those in power look like corrupt cakes.

You want to know something fun, SA.
In that same 2018, the classes below,
the South Africans global national media don’t care to notice,
were losing their homes, small businesses,
freezing their retirement annuities or opting out of private medical aid schemes,
crushed by corporate-set expenses, drowning in debt,
barely alive, working two or more jobs to meet the costs of life.

Then add blackouts, crime, racist, sexist interpersonal trauma,
add poverty-driven starvation and childhood abuse,
a merry-go-round ripe for alcoholism,
depression,
and recreational-drug-o-rama.

Here’s the concern,
if you go from a shack to a low-cost house,
unemployment to employment,
they say, everything will be A-okay,
but how does that work,
when the lower-middle class had jobs and university degrees,
they were still being impoverished, which is clear,
finding out now, about “market forces”,
doing them dirty for years.

Can the lower classes expect reparations for this shit,
or is that benefit exclusive to big business, with state approval?

Don’t do that sneaky sneaky thing you do, callous media,
propagating the business lie that reparations is unaffordable for 102 centimillionaires in 2024.
The union rep for the local-foreign trickle-down rich, the decades-old politico opposition,
forget to mention the EU in-work poverty reports and how developed Europe looks to level out their own wealth floor.

We are consistently told that the theft, mismanagement, apathy of a political king,
is the only real reason why we were suffering.
Okay, I’ll bite,
I am equally exhausted,
but take a step back, how exactly was trickle-down to work,
in a structurally, demographic-inequitable mess,
made real by neo-Nazi liberal economics,
of old geopolitical extent.

How was serving the desires and needs of big business,
both domestic and foreign,
going to guarantee that we would be enriched justly,
in the land, we called home.

Because as far as I can see,
in these gloriously painful years,
the trickle-down hasn’t been trickling, my friend,
it’s been flooding upwards
,
into bigwig mouths, noses and ears,
which is particularly interesting seeing that,
South Africa was ranked as the 39th country in the world,
with the largest economy through GDP.
Our business-politico mates were clearly drinking in 2022,
while the rest of us—the lower-classes,
could only afford to drink our own urine.

Why South Africa,
do we never discuss critically and intelligently,
the country’s resources and industries,
those that control it, especially seeing that control and influence matters.
Where is the critical analysis on company equity deals,
and which countries, through their businesses,
own what is rightfully ours to use.
How many companies are partially or fully foreign-owned,
and what does that mean for true South African enrichment and class inequity,
if most of our African manganese and such,
is controlled by foreign actors.

Why do we never mention the reality,
that we don’t have fully-owned, fully-made South African electric cars,
laptops, streaming services, social media platforms, to name a few,
that for most of my life, our film and media content was bought from the US,
and what does that do to our local industries,
content limited to a few.

Have we never wondered how much we have been enriching other countries,
and their economies,
when South African wealth should be for all South Africa,
Africa-first, isn’t that obvious.

When they talk about the threat of foreigners,
always a working class menace,
they don’t mention, last season’s expert, who said,
corporates privatising land is entrenching inequality,
transnationals too,
private property developments,
the money-making boogaloo.
The top politico mates who point us to “illegal” human beings,
never mentioned, ever,
foreign corps grabbing acreage,
solidifying justice arrears.

The ripple effects on the economic majority,
a working class kept in the dark,
long discussions about black versus white, immigrant alike,
in reality, zebra exploitation, resource expropriation boils down to class.

And on this constantly scapegoating desperate human beings,
do you ever get tired of making “black lives matter” an African farce,
with your nationalist bigoted ideas that last.

Because let us get real,
from one born South African to another,
lower-class foreigners,
are the most vulnerable people in our country, however much a bother.
The old politico contenders, across black, white and brown,
know this very well, they’ve known it for years,
and they use this immigrant vulnerability,
to pull at your ears.
Willfully shifting their governance failures at provincial, national level,
onto ordinary people you call “them”,
while you willfully choose to be blind to their political needles.
How easily they sew division on the ground floor,
while the penthouse, business-and-politico, lie back and snore.

Don’t believe me,
have you never scrutinised your neolib politico contenders,
black and white, of 1994 fame.
The bigoted ideas they brandish,
or bury deep in suggested policy action, all to shit-stir your hate.

What was it they said,
the health care system was problematic,
because of the weight that foreign nationals are bringing to the country,
or, how about, the securing our borders line,
copied and pasted from a foreign country,
the same one funding our blinkered media, that created woke and anti-woke,
terms that we never before heard of.
Linking immigration of the lower classes to job creation or crime,
can’t you see, brothers, when you’re getting played?
Or is this too painful for you,
you merely want to be saved.

These so-called “illegals” have no voting rights,
no political voice.
They’re at our mercy,
real fear.

They have no support structures,
like structured in-country community,
or ease of language or laws that prioritise them for job opportunities.
Certainly, no accountability structures,
proactively protecting their rights.
So when they get exploited by our business industries and households,
paid lower wages,
or forced to work while sick or through public holidays,
they have no one to turn to,
modern-day slavery of sorts is just their life.
And they sure as hell can’t come to you, their African cousins,
who are as likely to blame them, shame them,
hurt, murder and maim them,
making excuses for obvious bigoted stereotypes.

So of course, you can get away with mimicking racist ideas,
about “those people”,
the kind of ideas that people like me throw at you, my black brothers,
even now to this day.
Keep telling yourselves they’re not equally civilised,
not decent, not deserving like you,
because ultimately they don’t remind you of you,
and that is their biggest crime in our country, yeah,
be honest, through and through.

You, who proudly make social media statements,
of how they are the criminal threat,
do you know black South Africa, how many white, Indian and coloured people,
still think that of you and yours, when we discuss you before bed.
We don’t care about the neo-lib system,
the socio-political structures, the gov policies and business choices that have crushed you into dust.
We don’t waste our breath talking about poverty’s role,
exploitative or unfair business policies and practices,
unemployment causing you to move into awful crime hubs.
Noooo, why would we,
you are not human like us.
We would be remiss to make such a fuss.

When you say,
those foreigners are stealing our jobs or dealing drugs.
Haha, I hear my grandfather’s voice,
as he suggests all impoverished coloured people,
are “drug-dealing, taking gangsters”.
These are old racial whispers,
racist, human-ranking insults,
meant to degrade and dehumanise,
so that your politico contenders of whatever faction,
can do your abusive cruel bidding for life,
and deflect the bigotry buried inside,
treating African foreigners like pawns they can push aside.

You will quickly turn on the Zim or Zambian,
who lives in the shack next door,
assaulting, murdering, degrading their humanity,
and more,
but you won’t turn to South African neo-lib leaders,
both politico and business alike,
and give them a back-handed klap,
for ruining, selling,
collecting more, exploiting what is ours.
You choose not to place your grief at their doorstep, because,
maybe, just maybe, you’d have to admit,
the structures of the neo-lib system should have been,
on your watch, re-looked at.

Maybe you’d be forced to stare into a mirror,
asking yourselves, how did I betray my country,
our country’s people, a democratic name,
something none of the politico contenders,
are willing to do sincerely and diligently,
isn’t that a shame?

This was never about foreign African poor,
Sies!
This was about justice! A just system,
that was denied for my 38 years and more.

This is about lived grief,
national fucking grief,
that you are born to a land, more and more privately owned,
public service being a wish rather than a guarantee,
one that should show visible progress to all.

This is about trusting a system from birth,
later finding out,
it’s economically murdered you, and everyone you know,
and feeling a deep pain,
so deep, you cannot scream,
for fear that your voice may go, your soul may leave.

This is about selfishness,
greed at the highest levels of business and political power.
It is about open wounds,
bleeding onto a foreign, working class punching bag.

Get it? No? This is about class betrayal, friends,
from a penthouse dominated by minority white, now including some black and brown,
sitting on asset thrones, most have not earned,
watching working people starve to die, a lower-middle crushed to the ground.

Can’t you see? They don’t want the lower classes to unite,
the media higher-ups, the politico-business clan.
If you see the penthouse for what it is,
you might gather, act against the system, you might finally understand.

So I don’t care, what you say,
I will die on this hill, bra,
honouring our equal humanity, every night and day.
I promised my dead brother on that Phoenix video,
that I will never again be complicit, silent on bigotry,
and I plan on keeping my word,
despite this contempt-filled, policy-driven zealotry.

And so, when we ask questions, South Africa,
who controls the spotlight,
that is meant to lead us to answers,
the system,
institutional policies, processes and practices,
driven by political and business elites.
Right wing, centre-left,
chicken wing alike,
they have for three decades
been driving this bus into shite.

Who are we supposed to trust, South Africa,
white or black, yellow or blue,
advise me, please,
because from where I stand, these two politico contenders,
with their respective media blankets,
appear long symbiotic bedmates.
Full bellies stuffed with privilege, wealth or cash,
constant lawyer-driven or social media games hide,
comfort with class exploitation and complicity,
with an unfettered trickle-down system,
much more than proximity to racialised minds.

Like the deal with a preferred for-profit business,
to manage my province’s harbour.
How do our class-sies media frame the labour union’s voice?
“Scupper” is their verb of choice,
as if the ordinary people of my seemingly democratic country,
are a nuisance, unworthy of a disobedient vote.

Too, is the weaponising of old race tropes,
hidden behind words like civilised or dictator,
most-of-Africa-is-Christian anecdotes.
Man, seriously, good luck,
on those rapturous days of note.

We also shouldn’t ignore,
the men: black and white,
politico-business,
celebrity-media, young and old alike,
the so-called liberals who say,
we need more centrism, whatever the hell that means, sure must sound good that day.
They label any structural change as extremism,
talking about killing it on stage,
constantly brow-bent, they smile broad and wide,
pretending in front of children it seems,
that they have not spent most of their lives,
building their self-esteem and net worth,
by making the powerful,
however comfortable with what’s unjust,
accept, tolerate or like them, an unspoken must.
But their dismantling of a dream, a just system,
goes beyond private or media goose-stepping,
their deference or promotion of the neo-lib status quo is what we miss.
They never mention, let alone critique private equity “investment” games,
all over the world.
The raising of investment monies using other funds, like pensions,
searching for companies with assets,
like commercial property they can sell.
Our upper-rung libs of zebra stripes never mention, let alone critique,
how the sale of these assets,
combined with a collection of fees,
including new rental costs are a fin media mystery,
often resulting in purging of staff,
efficiency rebuilding, ultimately matching their investment leg-up,
which means anything more becomes extra dough for them, a gravy train,
a sweet deal in the main.
And what we don’t see or hear from the libs we trust,
is how in practice the “investment” deal then becomes a debt for the beleaguered company taken over,
sometimes having to pay management fees for years that don’t count.
And what does all this mean for sustainable growth, company and industry wide,
what does this mean for the service of people, consumer costs and the workers left behind.
What does two of twenty mean. Show us lived case studies on how this works.
How many of these parasitic deals have been finalised in ma Africa?
What is the risk of this happening to our continent, to us?

They don’t ever mention the cost of inequity in global capital markets,
terms like seigniorage, market dominance and the impact of global policies,
the global comparative share of public employees per population,
what could work for South African prosperity, our developing economy.

They don’t mention the Investor State Dispute Settlement game,
how it forces corporate foreign interests to take first place,
or how foreign development aid is a cover,
corporate social responsibility, yet another,
who is truly controlling and leading the nation, I ask but those in charge don’t bother.

Ergo, we are left with black and white critically-superficial stars,
who hide their focus on their own personal wealth,
behind libertarian, hustle-and-grind, personal investment success words.
When they come, and they already have,
the evolving wisdom must be brought to bear,
that of the lumbering church on the hill,
who said, I hear,
an appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile—hoping it will eat him last.
The lesson, my dears:
a drive for individual wealth from an inequitable system,
is a comfort with injustice that you should be critical of.
Few of you back home can afford,
to avoid critically questioning,
the structures of our geopolitical national reality, present and past.

Of course, of course,
I still want to believe.
I hope,
I want to hope for the people I was forced to leave.
But thirty years later, it is our birthright to see the whole picture,
not just the bits they want us to focus on,
while now two politicos butt kiss,
their pals still drinking from the country’s pitchers.

An honest man once said,
you either serve truth and justice,
or privilege and power,
less relevant is interpersonal race, gender, citizenship, more what’s above us, the stuff we miss.


….
But hey, man,
what do I know.
I am a mom, not a heterodox economist,
or a political, media wagging tongue.

I was only once a ten-year-old girl,
promised freedom, economic too,
a long-ago silenced drum,
as time has gone on.

So to the young,
the ordinary sunny-blooded,
stay critical, stay informed,
ask the kind of questions that bring discomfort to your norm.

Love ma Africa more than your racial, ethno-religious,
nationalist, political allegiances.
Love her more than the media that prop them up for your viewing.
Love your ma, more than yourself,
and put your faith in her first.
Please, argue for the doing of what’s right,
even if it costs you a social circle,
some friends at the braai or the tennis club.

Don’t make our mistake, sweets,
letting hope be a turgid fantasy,
masking the very system needing wider interrogation.
Your country’s future chained to a rainbow that gives scantily.
Being hopeful is to be uncomfortably courageous,
amongst upper-rung power.
If you are quickly the suitable candidate,
you might actually be a ticked box,
more than a solving problems brauer.
When a nation has been sold a painting of blank spots,
you learn with age that the opus is a puzzle,
and what’s missing,
might be the influence and games of the ascots, stuff worthy of a muzzle.

Although whatever you decide,
I hope, truly I do,
that everything you wish for darlings,
is made real for you.
Whatever my criticisms,
your current fears and despair may be,
iAfrika’s protea home has always deserved,
to be independent,
and equitably free.


  1. Selections: Excerpted from The Common Good by Noam Chomsky, 1998, https://chomsky.info/commongood01/ ↩︎

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