MAGAZINE
In my time now, / Lets not kill them / Lets kill the corporate field / Lets take over the land / Lets be more black than we have ever been!
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Koko danced herself into a casket / Offering her blood as a tablecloth / She is skin, melting away at the seams, / Offering her rupture as a chorus
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I do not want to white anymore! I do not want to rainbow without bread. I do not want to hate Cecil and anthem with his children, to shoot Hofmeyr and dance to Micasa, to burn sparrows and mourn the death of cleggs, to hate Eugene and thank Slovo.
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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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Re kgobokanela Gauteng re tlo tjheka kgauta, / Re tela mobu wa baholo, re hlobohane le oona. / Baena le dikgaetsedi, basadi le bana ba setse morao. / Toro tsa bona re di jere mahetleng a rona / Lebaka ke bona re leng matlolaterata / Empa kgauta e re roka mahlwana a naketsana / E robatsa moutlwa, sepheo le morero wa yona ke ho re metsa.
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the violence of silence as we watch people who have come to our city struggle to maintain their dignity and we do nothing
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He is not convinced you're hurt; you're not bleeding He forgets you bleed monthly when you're not hurting He doesn't understand your soul speaks the moon's language Yet he expertly gathers rain clouds in your heart But his thirst to leave your earth dry and cracked
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Gabrielle has died more eight times along with all her joy in bundles. Her body has kept her prisoner for decades for being woman, convinced her arms aren’t warm enough to cradle mankind.
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