This piece was something born out of the coverage of the electoral campaigns run by the ANC after Nelson Mandela's death. How they approached them disturbed me so I felt I had to write something about it.
Listen to how it carries on
Mandela’s freedom song lifts
Towards the sky but never dwells,
Never stays to lift the starving
Ones from shacks that lean towards
The ground. Pieces falling off the
Cool tin roofs as a little baby cries,
Little ribs pushing against his tiny
Chest while the lights flicker and
Slowly die
Too many bills piled up,
Too many promises but the water’s
Filthy, the backyard garbage filled,
Bloodshot eyes still beg for tears
But nothing fills
You got to love that freedom song
Listen to how it carries on,
It lifts its head towards the sky
While my dirty shirt has ripped,
My back is bowed under years
And a falling ceiling, the rocks putting
Weight on my old neck
I have to love that freedom song but
The song won’t feed me, the song can’t
See this hole that’s me, torn black
Fingers and no more red or green for
Me.
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