Spit in my Left Eye

A swelled pinhead and colonial offshoot declares your home is a shithole; to remain where you are. you look around and see the crap - raped beauty. Molested potential. Stolen riches and resources.  Overwhelming chaos. Pee without pots No water to wash away the stench of ammonia Lopsided shacks - The drop no longer long; a hole in the ground where flies meet. Bread without butter Riverbeds dumpsites for termites. Homes heavily laden with worry. the uni-grad doing taxi not for joy but because he has nothing to eat, no job in his field. The picture of seized splendour rises inside your heart and it hurts. Truth dawns - the thief looks good in your gucci's The rapist wears your scent like the devil wears prada He knows what he took he orgasms on memorable euphoria; rubs your face in the soil where your soul lives. Its all there in black and white - Your fist hits a bulls eye - colonialists must fall eat grass you slimeball! Peace-molester. la

"I became a whole person when I finally put away the exile’s little packed suitcase. If I am ever liberated from this bondage of racialism, there are some things much more exciting to me, objectively, to write about. But this world has such a social orientation, and I am involved in this world and I can’t cut myself off.” ****Peter Abrahams - first internationally published Black South African author - 1946 "Mine Boy". I have been to Zimbabwe and experienced the fears and falling tears. I spent more than moments within the barracks of Nigeria and witnessed gruesome atrocities and the divides of rich and poor. The ghastly and animalistic slayings of refugees in South Africa and broader nations. Teens begging me to care less and let them die at their own hand - life in the trenches of the ghetto too painful and overwhelming. Poverty and abuse a hell hole most would do anything to be free of. I reflected and re-visited the sins of apartheid; it's authors a

They gag on our flag -   the old was "better".  how was it better being thrown off beaches;  out of trains,  buried in drains - barred from restaurants;  forced to enter side gates;  fed 2nd rate education;  kicked from our homes;  forcibly moved and  imprisoned for crossing the  "immorality act";  beaten and tortured;  murdered;  kicked and head-butted  for not having a pass;  playing music in secret places;  stealing away to indulge in the arts;  punished and  whipped when caught;  earning painful salaries;  called supervisor not  original designer; transferring your skills for nought.  How was it better  when bodies went missing;  domestic workers raped and harassed;  mixed babies born; not by men black or brown;  how was life better when we couldn't move beyond our space after 6. what joy was derived when  unable to fulfil your desired ambition because your colour wasn't right

I was not crafted from your soil.   My feet cracked not from walking miles in your shoes. this is what you say - yet my heart laboured as it poured it's blood for your ebbing life. My eyes dried like autumn leaves as it dreamed your dreams stared into your vacant spaces and watched the darkening of your sun. Bony fingers drained of sleep; my convictions seeping into yellowed scrolls; squeezed through prohibited portholes I'm not like you - our southwestern, eastern northern borders crisscross, but our skin and kin are not same that's what you say, though the matching molecule of life flows through our veins, our fears and fight intricately woven in our mothers womb. The soil we tread is hers; borders cannot chain my purple passions. I have eaten from your wastelands and tasted the bitter wines of servitude that now burn inside my belly, Is the red you breathe not mine - Are we not the Africlan who cheer our liberation from the cup of a bloody savanna that feed