They lay outside at night when the day is clear with fun
They barely speak and feel no shame in sharing treason puns
The wicked, they carry guns
They hoot their cars and run over their halves
They are dressed in Brights as their pockets shout with silver coins
Their feet gravel the grounds and clap hard on the tar
They walk like suicide, in-between, above and in front of eternity’s promises
The wicked believe they are wise by their record breaking deeds
They no longer hide their faces at day light for it hides their potent innocence
Faces familiar to us, similar to those kids down the streets
Under the shies shivering with poverty, they have had enough
The wicked they own the towns, they give out advice
They love the young entrepreneurs of daylight in boutique taxi ranks and raw parliament
In the night they are free of religion and her judgments, her rules and her left over pop music
So the wicked: they hoot their cars, they carry guns and clap the tar at night
This hurt is greater than
A hurt greater than that,
Shared by a family that could not be rounded to the nearest ten.
Its difference in weight is the equality of ain shouted and documents deputing the slaves;
Pain drained out form their brains and the transparent tears.
The gold sagging of the rocks in lament; imprisoned in the rear.
This pain is greater than a suicidal atmosphere,
Than the temptation of judgement in a homicide scene;
This hurt is greater than that
The eyes of a blinded star who can no longer see his shine.
Visible on the ground is his gushing blood on the accident night
That’s where his sight remained,
A holistic scene painful in all Arial views
Her strands clutch those waters
Those woolen strands of drowned mops, soaked in all wasted waters of life
The water that flushed the creased
The waters that bathed even the clean bodies
And the dirt of sin in every excretion defined
Historical burdens swaying on her shoulders,
Heavy buckets carrying solvent thirst
Carried up hills and under woven barrels, just to hide and colour her waters into luxury drinks
The waters humor the minds of numb sorrows and wipe that memory of crimes
Earth, she is sucked of her oceans and lakes
She is punched into porous chambers and measured holes, filled with chlorine
Injections of purity?
A woman is as pure in her birth giving
Her wounds and springs give off not blood, not pain
They give off survival in the care of man
She grows her mountainous breasts for all her children, animals’ insect and bird
“Come wet you beaks, your snorts, your ingrown lips”, she says
“Don’t let your beards drown and your fur un-root from your pores, for your master is peevish, He will clean my waters, seeing only your faults
Purified as a young woman, filtered with the glamorous machines
Out of me they pump and pump
They quench and quench nutrify and satisfy
But not even their pipes know my name”
Are we endangered within ourselves?
Coloured in darkness by internal sickness trying to cure the outcomes of people’s mistakes with antidotes still in testing
Frisbees not reaching their destination
Do our filthy pockets enrich Us?
Or the imported material that makes our wallets, fulfill Us
We surround our inferiors inside a falling fence
And watch them spring out with greed and new souls
Are we untrained by the quality of our books but soaked with the grime of the ground?
Slithering towards our side hollows in those tall structured walls
Aren’t we the creators of those guns?
Selling them in transparent laces, what we cannot see
Barely covering their goods and the toes on their feet
They poison our eyes, our minds, our involuntary actions
In our money they dig holes and forge themselves
To please us, to eat Us, to be Us
Are we endangered within the things and the self in Us?
The thing we do to deprive mistakes of quality
So we don’t have to learn from them,
We are trying to incubate all that is biotic into capsules
So all of creation can only learn from us, the knew creators
Us, the experienced, Us, the supernatural, Us, that came before breath before Eden
Us, the endangered within ourselves, amongst ourselves, within ourselves, in-between ourselves?
Khethiwe Mndawe: "I am a 30 Media and PR practitioner with a background and community development, education and social development. I’m passionate about Africa and it's transformation, uncovery and representation in development, business, media, research, Academics and documentation. I am a creative who also enjoys doing exhibitions and international exposure programs for African literature, history cultures and creative arts and untold stories."