Mania in the Post-Colony

I.

It is the morning
that I dread.
Vaslap across the face
razor sharps
run riot on my head.

This
the civilization
of vile dejection
half nappy
half happy
half dready.

I see you, ntwana yam.
We
are Biko’s Bantu
unkempt
and full darkie.
Affirmed.
Take pride, my laaitie.

II.

Beyond these four walls
are fake smiles
and violent handshakes
sell-outs
and assimilation parades
soul trades and soul ties
suits & ties
and stinking pretences.

So much for wanting a ‘safe space’!

III.

I loathe little england
and its little churches of england
with its little sirs
misters and madams.

Holy book in hand
and over-glorified conversions
romanticising criminal subversions
in the name of modernisation’s conventions.

Behind the missionary
is a visionary
whose goodwill is but a smokescreen
to infiltrate and raid your identity.

Used-to-be ground tillers.
Used-to-be homemakers.
Post the colony
Nubian queens and kings
are sick & tired miners
and child minders.
Your great-grandfather was a slave.
Your mother is a maid.
You work to break the generational curse
They employ to build their generational wealth.

IV.

Twenty-one past the new millennium
The woke
clout-chasing-fave-canceling-blue-bird anarchists
will have you believe
that the thud
of a falling Rhodes
will raise you up
from our collective
existential
bottomless pit
of a crisis.

They are wrong.
These are not the kicks of a dying horse.

Hold onto your rose.

 

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash