Mania in the Post-Colony - Siyanda Qoto

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.

---

Siyanda Qoto (20th century) South Africa

Source: Brittle Paper