for Chris Hani

Comrade Chris Hani

(28 June 1942 – assassinated 10 April 1993)

Mowed down

by hot lead,

your blood flowed

into our African soil.
Murdered you, yes, they did.
Silence you, they never will,

for your voice,

your spirit,

speaks to us still!

http://www.sahistory.org.za/people/thembisile-chris-hani

Not quite a Refugee

art by Banksy

Not quite a Refugee …

In all my life, I have waited, searched, stealing glances behind every closed door,

peering into teacups, my feeble attempts at divining what tomorrow may have in store.

In all my life, I have kissed the soft lips of joy, murmuring words of love, always trying to find a soul,

a soul perhaps far, far away, or around the corner, looking for that one who would make me whole.

I have found love, here and there, deep and true, as I have faced the gale, a hurricane that never ends, always on the lookout, for the poisoned arrows that fate sends.

I have found desolation, tossing me about, lost in the crowd, never fitting in, never wanting to fit in, to finally flee this city’s cacophonous din.

I have found pain, slicing me into bits , the offensive comment here, the hateful look there, the laughter of them all that echoes in my heart, barren and bare.

I have found anger, within myself, at my being the way I am, having to cross oceans, to walk amongst people who do not give a damn.

I am lost, an exile amongst my own people, where you either join the fake charade, or get dumped broken and bruised, trampled by the hollow parade.

I am lost, a refugee who will never be a part of the pack, for I know they will always snigger at me, behind my bent back.

What do they know of loss and of pain, what do they know of packing up a few belongings, fleeing cities, over and over and over again.

What do they think when they see me, a party trick who does the rounds, breaking little by little inside, while all around me their laughter abounds.

Where can I flee, where is my place of peace, while the jabs and the snide quips never cease.

Where is that promise of home that once burned bright, while now I am in the dark, bereft of hope and blinded without light.

How do I pick up these pieces, scattered fragments of my being, strewn across the world where I have always lost, a part of me staying behind, at an immeasurable cost.

How will I ever shed this skin of the clown, this fakeness I have wrapped around me, how will I ever be me, ridding myself of this plastic smile, to just be free.

This world, these places, offer me no hope at all, for they have thrashed me to the ground to mercilessly crawl.

This world, these crocodile smiles, these clinking champagne flutes, can never compare to the dung-caked soles of my roots.

This place, and countless others through which I have roamed, are razors which dealt death to me by a thousand and one cuts, where you must conform, without any ifs, and certainly without any buts.

I find my solace in my scribbles, in my blood dripping on each page, where I pour out my pain, my loss, my deadened spirit, my brimming rage.

I find solace in the moments when the rain washes these avenues, a rushing past of detritus in a cleansing stream,

I find solace walking through the icy rain, in my eternal quest to not reek of foreignness, for just a moment or two, to be pure and clean,

I find solace, fleeting at best, to moult this skin, of every pain felt,

and of every horror seen.

dove of peace by Picasso