Spit in my Left Eye

The trauma of injustice fertilises our souls till we are but a shadow of our former selves It is the red that stains the hands that scalp law breakers  Vigilante justice has destroyed our humanity; we have forgotten how to feel Too wound up in fierce despair and blind ferocity to listen. Our eyes seek tabloids and newsworthy columns but our insight is as a cloudy lens,    contaminated by hate and calcified logic.   we are too tightly strung;  stuck to a mental rung in arbitrary frenzy to unseat the dictator. We can be healed of this madness but only if we start to feel; really feel the fear of those who travail through the same troubles we do   we must learn to reason not as fools but as the freed not as slaves but as saints - to  fight as victors not victims for surely he who fixates on death is already defeated.   If we are consumed by vengeful obsession to rip the heart of the cantankerous viper are we too then not as he is?    Our free

Image by Mohammed Metri The sun stretched lethargically then ricocheted off the red streaks of her hair and mirrored itself in the green pools of her eyes. King Duncan McAlpine gazed infinitely at her soft mouth.  Their eyes spoke of an unquenchable fire. Soul to soul. Their passions narrated intent and dangerous games - a courtship of swans. The residents of the Isle of Rhe were restless, hankering after their bone for the day. A King who was found guilty of the abduction and murder of the French Queen Gabrielle Delon was indeed the type of parade that would bring hundreds to the town square.  Their voices a welter of discordant sounds. "Murder”? shouted the village baker, his pound of belly glaring beneath the flour coated beige apron. His voice straining above the din, "Blah blah blah. No such thing. The King is a decent fella. This is the work of his one-eyed monster of a step-brother,  it is Lord Blanchard’s doing I tell ya". The crowd roared with laughter

not bound by chasms, racism, fascism I am the stream trickling from the peyote cactus in the dry dead of the Sahara, The sand storm that sanitizes every stained spot in its wake. I rise from the South, East, North and West. Under the camels hump I am shadowed from the sweltering sun at noon and clothed for the damp dead of night. I shake the dust from burdens dragged through the evening heat. The hiss of the desert monitor stills not my focus. Like the hooves of a rhim gaselle are my feet - sure yet soft. Caves and burrows shield my dignity in drought. and the waking croc smiles at my courage as the rains wash away my dried tears. I am a Woman I stand tall and fall, My exploits are as the twist in every tornado and when morning comes I rise to meet the scorpion dead on. I rise - from the desert sun - from the dry savanna scapes I am the wisdom of the rock hyrax that moves with my sisters while we forage for the hungry world around us. When t

"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

We try.... we grind. We cry .... despair. ... each day a plea..... God help us this world's aflame - Humanity rots before our eyes We pray We plead We despair hope flickers falters falters fades We try Grind cry despair Lord, exterminate this scourge. (C) Jambiya "The power of words".