Born on the wrong side of the colour spectrum. We bungee jump with the harness of the umbilical cord. We can’t fly. We brace ourselves for impact when we hover to the ground.
We have been attempting to grow scales since the ultrasound.
Claws have alluded us since birth.
Feathers are a thing of mystery.
We earned those by virtue of our tone.
We have long dwelled at the bottom of waterfalls and been striving to move upstream.
Apartheid, servitude and grotesque living conditions; the gravity pulling us down, keeping us at bay on these muddy waters at the feet of waterfalls.
These muddy waters; townships, concentrating on caging us in this tribal segregated camp.
Like fruits from the forbidden tree, we are picked to leave the camp and go clean their yards.
Mine our gold for them.
We are picked to open doors for them in skyscrapers.
Look after their children while our own are dying to live in this squalor.
But even picked fruits will rot. We were all trapped.
Curfews and boundaries, pass books and whites only.
We have earned our stripes.
Detained by apartheid state security services on various occasions, tortured, subjected to banning orders, banished to rural towns and spent several months in solitary confinement.
We have earned our stripes.
Accused of being at the centre of an orgy of violence in Soweto, exerting a reign of terror.
But what do you expect from a cornered black mamba?
It can’t tuck its tail between its legs and hide its head in shame, all of its body is its tail.
Tucking its tail means we are coiling.
Hiding its head means we are opening our inky-black mouths, spreads our narrow neck-flaps and sometimes we hiss.
We hiss in Struggle songs, marching and burning tyres.
We hiss in conscientising our own, preparing them for the fire.
When push comes to shove, we are capable of striking at considerable range and may occasionally deliver a series of bites in rapid succession.
Our venom primarily composed of potent neurotoxins, we are not sure if it can kill an elephant.
But we are willing to die trying.
Trying to free the souls of our foremothers.
Trying to liberate the shadows of our forefathers.
Regain the dignity of being a people seen as less than animals.
Things to be thrown in Robben Island.
We have earned our stripes.
We have come to realise that our palms are river streams, we can take a drink from our own hands.
Even if our ascendants were never designed for aerodynamics.
We puzzle the wind when we throw caution to it.
Causing turbulence.
Fanning thunderstorms and cracking sky.
Our scars are not privileged enough to heal.
We keep carrying them on our sleeves.
These scars are vertical. We keep bleeding on our township streets.
This is how we quench the thirst of wandering spirits of the 69 gunned down during Sharpeville massacre.
For Hector Pieterson. For those who perished, weakened and exiled post the Soweto uprising.
We have failed to grow scales.
Claws have alluded us since birth. Feathers are a thing of mystery. We can’t fly. We do not need to earn wings when our stripes say we deserve an airport named after Mama Winnie Madikizela Mandela.
@Rabbie_Wrote