Bakile ba kgoa ke lewatle
Le modimo wa bona senoamadi
Bare phamo lefatshe
ketla kgora kao busetsa
Re ba file madi lolo lolo
Lefatshe le kae?
Your death will be called art
Your struggle theorised
Your pain hypothesised
Your life, a PHD dissertation for white privilege
Trying to “save the world” … in theory
Then kill you again.
Kak in die Land
It’s day six with dry taps
I’m wondering what will kill me first
The toilet or the kitchen sink?
One more sh*t, Cilili
And I swear
This house is going to explode.
And I’m worried Cilili
What if sh*t hits the proverbial fan
And my family is left with sh*t on their faces?
Can we then come to your house to wash ourselves clean?
Is your house plastered in sh*t too?
187 vs 503
Child heavily armed with a biscuit
Black child firing skittles
Black child mute to death
Child wearing an explosive hoodie
Shoot to kill
Shoot to kill
What if Indians are now white enough to shoot blacks?
II/II/II (The Last Statement)
Dear De Klerk
How nice it must be to die with dignity
To untimely pass away
Your body weathered by life but still intact
Not blown into pieces and quickly buried in the veld of history
Not missing or unaccounted for
Not jailed or hung
How nice it must be for your grandkids to mourn you
And point at your grave
For their children
To decorate it with proteas
Not have to look for traces of you between John Voster square and Pollsmoor Prison
Not have to piece together memories scattered across the unknow
Not missing or murdered
Not barely remembered
How nice it must be to have the last word
To rationalize evil
In the comfort of apartheid loot
Nostalgic in your madness
Not dead silent in lost earth
Not a laughable sacrifice over a braai with beers
Not just another kaffir in the township
How nice it must be to die free
Washed in the blood of blacks
Anointed saviour of the mass struggle
Commander of white scorn
Not at Thembisa Hospital begging for oxygen
Not criminalized and vilified
Not racist … anymore.
You are a king turned thief
When all you had to do was trust your ancestors and your people
Now you wear the emperor’s oversized robe
Trimmed with looted jewels of your nation
You will lose your sense of taste
Your tongue will go numb
No matter how much salt you add to your food
You will never taste your own saliva again
You will never know contentment nor fulfilment
That ancient battle hill now called Marikana, thirsts for your tears
Then your blooRun Matamela run
You know the ghosts that chase you every night
They hold your secrets
They want to free you
From yourself and your masters
Tell us Matamela
What shall we do with you after you have killed us too?
Blood is the history of everything
You are not only pouring yourself out
But your ancestors too