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

South Africa was caught in a civil war – the mob petrol bombed our home.  Machete armed men fighting for justice and peace. Aflamed torches seeking change.  Our home represented too many crossover elements. Too much education gained from the white man.  Teachers influenced by white education. I was five years old with no idea of the storm that raged in the hearts of my people who saw us as the enemy. The faction fighting and brandishing arms were displays of undisguised abhorrence that ignited and flared into a towering inferno.  I was the innocent victim and those who fought to rid their town of “traitors” melted my bones, my dreams.... my skin. My home.   but then again, there are no victors in war. And men give their lives for freedom.  In their distaste of all that was white they hastily took mine. A black 5 year old boy.   The scars were deep and disabilities hard to behold.  Skin grafting sessions were my second home throughout high school.  When my classmates refused t

My ears pricked as the shrill pierced my 2 year old innocence. "You're a chop off the old block"! Carina Reynecke was the master of wrangling. Her husband Ferdinand - a rooibos tea grower - was too princely. “Come Brown” he gently prompted, a reminder of how much he adored my eyes. I walked beside him along the Cypress lane as he relived past moments – The demon slugs hung about in villainous fervour. Mr "Old Brown Sherry" Reynecke had pissed and pooped his pants again; mumbling into his alcohol infused puke. 20 year old Ferdinand slung his father before the onlookers then footslogged. The old man’s expletives echoed through the cypress trees and raised its aggression to  beat the ground, where the armadillo sat in silence Ferdi doubled over at the torturous memory.Shame glazed his hot skin. Even now, 10 years later his tears are like freshly squeezed lemon; Fleshy splayed bits like Jackson Pollock’s No 5 -a gradient artistic creation articu

Her silent whimper went unheard; tongs pierced translucent skin and like a vengeful act imbedded fragile bones, Steel wrenched an arm  from its shoulder. Her mother's silence hurt more than this obliteration -  more than the inch by inch rip of leg  from hip.... blinded eyes screaming in shock. “Mommy please!” – Her heart pounding strong; Her soul unbreakable, “Stop! Mommy please”, she sobbed “Please......please ”! Isabella stared aimlessly - as if her very soul had been plucked from the earth. Tiny fingers curled tightly  around it's life support the cord froze in places it touched. Life lost its grip. But her memory stubbornly held on.  She tried one more time as her voice trailed off - "Mommy".........  Terminated yet present.   With a thrust and twist of his curette "The Chief" breaks her spine and crushes her skull; His scissors snip, snap  then scrape her from her safe haven - her incubator; warm flesh sucked