Mania in the Post-Colony


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

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

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


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

So much for wanting a ‘safe space’!


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.


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
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