Thandiwe Zhanje

The Land of Illusionary milk and honey read by Andrew Manyika.

But when I arrived All I saw of the landscape was its rancid torso. The rivers had become prisoners condemned to an eternity of stillness. The contours were scars, tallying the countless years of trauma. The soil had hardened, open hands were now closed fists. No songs were heard. No musicians were in sight.

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