GADDAFI MAKHOSANDILE

I could tell you about the anxiety that has had me in a chokehold for some time now, breathing freely has been an ongoing struggle.

I could tell you about fear, how it hangs over my dreams like a grey curtain of clouds weaved with beads of rain, blocking off rays of hope.

I could tell you about the confusion that has kept my thoughts company for days on end, an unpleasant voice whispering bitter nothings of doubt.

I could tell you about how my eyes have become mirrors and so what I see – the disgusting filth in the inner city; the paint peeling off buildings, age and neglect gnawing away at their monolithic state; and haggard faces and tired bodies aimlessly shuffling about this concrete anthill, robbed of their sense of self – is a reflection of me.

I could tell you about the pandemic of hate and how it has divided the whole lot of us and claimed sense, logic and compassion as its casualties.

I could tell you about the game of corruption which has a very simple goal, satisfaction of the self, and a very clear rule, abandon your moral sense.

But I want to tell you about this little girl, a white girl who, smiling innocently, waved at us as she rode past on her four wheeler and my companion said: “It is us, adults who infect the little ones with this disease.”

And the miserable grey curtain of clouds seemed to slowly part and eventually hope showed its face, beaming with the energy and vigour of passionate actors ever ready to take the stage and perform the play of boundless love.