Propaganda.

I saw them burn him alive!

Propaganda
A man fighting the system.

I saw fire latch onto his clothes as if it belonged to him. I saw smoke enter his lungs, denying him of life. I saw them throw petrol on his body. I saw his eyes intensify in pain as the fire grew. I saw his eyes tell a story no one listened to. I saw his body drop to the ground. I saw his hand reach out to the sky, as if heaven would open, and God would latch on to his soul, like fire did to his clothes. I saw his blood become one with the soil, as if it belonged there. I saw his body turn to ashes, except for the bones. I saw life and death in the singularity of a moment. I saw the police drive by, with sirens on their white Toyotas. I saw them salute the man who had started the beating. I heard the police say that was the rightful punishment.

For anyone that speaks against the government.

Piece inspired by: anyone who has fought for truth and freedom.

Recommended book reading: #1984georgeorwell

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Of Rapists & Victims: The First Of Its Series.

Sometimes we forget. That those closest to us are capable of the most heinous acts.

Photo credit: @ownherworld

I.
The hum of her skirt,

Stories of lust sewn in,

He sings along,

Thoughts of skin on skin,

And echoes of her plea,

Melodious,

The subjugation of her will,

Melodious,

The screams of her inching to survive,

Yet moaning to the thrust,

Of him,

She denies the face of the man that robs her,

She denies,

Yet moans?

She denies,

The face of her father,

She gives in,

Because she feels,

That’s the only way,

Out.

Of Black, Children & Vices.

tyronetakawira
photocredit: @artbywak

Colonialism kissed,

The face of the African sun,

Systematic,

The infiltration of the devil’s kiss,

Illusions of colour,

Illusions that blinded,

The hearts of supremacists,

WE ARE CHILDREN,

Dreams of our ancestors,

Silhouettes of their realities,

Our minds cannot conceive of,

Shades of black,

of niggers cut,

blood,

Bath of kaffirs,

The knife that is white privilege,

WE WERE BORN,

98tolife.wordpress.com
photocredit: @creativesoulphoto

With a melanin scarred,

We spite,

The stretch marks on our skin,

Yet poverty sits,

On the roof of our tongues,

Can we afford to speak?

Lineages of men,

That smoked polygamy once,

And forgot to exhale,

Lineages of men,

That skip responsibility with a tempo,

Crescendos of pain,

Crescendos of absence,

Men that leave,

Before daughters utter the word,

Father.

A MOTHER’S VICE,

98tolife.wordpress.com

Chinua demands,

Chinua demands to eat,

Chinua always demands,

His stomach shouts,

Ghosts of his vigor,

Ghosts of his hard work,

His stomach shouts,

Substances of liquor,

Substances of his hard work?

She kneels,

And washes the hand that bruised and battered her,

She kneels,

And feeds the mouth that swallows her name whole,

Before vomiting out another,

Priscilla?

The turn of her insides.

She knows not,

Of the silent messages,

And the loudness of moans,

That aren’t hers,

She knows not,

Of the legs that spread,

On the same bed that holds her secrets,

She knows not,

Of her daughter’s beauty,

Because hers, surely,

Isn’t enough,

She knows not?

She knows,
And justifies,

And kneels.

 

Daughter Of The Soil:

98tolife.wordpress.com

Your mother was an old, vibrant soul.
Naomi Nothando Dube? Wasn’t that her name?
A daughter of the soil,

she birthed you out of auras and Afrika,

beauty and fragility.

Your words recite her truths,

stories of slavery and sub-Saharan romance,

apartheid and rain gods,

Your ebony heritage has never been so sexy to me.

Your lips turn into a smile,

You say,

“Mama fed me porridge with one hand,

and wrote feminism in my heart with the other,

she made me carry buckets full of water,

and washed my body with small stones and scripture,”

I smile and whisper,

“Your ebony heritage has never been so sexy to me,”

Your eyes run away from mine,

You say,

“Mama beat me with a stick like the other boys,

she made me cook sadza and okra every night,

we all ate in one plate,”

I wipe the tears of your face,

“Still, your ebony heritage has never been so sexy to me,”
You say,

“Mama never let me outside,

all the girls got drunk and had fun,

I was as sober as a tea cup,

and dull as the tea bag,”

I laugh and say,

“Very funny, Gugu, but your ebony heritage is still sexy to me,”

You take off your shirt and turn your body from mine,

I see the marks on your back,

the scars under your arms,

You start to cry,

“What’s wrong?”

“Mama was an old vibrant soul,

a daughter of the soil,

but she never warned me of men that could steal my innocence.”

Enjoyed the read?  Give a big follow to MIND OF THE WRITER for inspiring it.

You can also check out her poems on abuse and sexual violence here and here.