By Nazleen Arbee & Ntebaleng Morake (@Nteba_Morake)
I wonder if sky scrapers
were built for sinners
trying to bridge the gap
between the heavens and the earth.
The slave ships never left
they’re prettier this time round.
We’ve built mansions with our bare hands
and went home to shacks.
The stars glimmer
on the hip of the sky
like a chrome pipe after a fresh murder.
The city is an open wound.
are an open tomb
a blood bath after birth.
You are slave
because you are black
you are black
because you are slave
for centuries, white men have turned the wombs of black women
it is the massacre of our existence.
You do not matter!
They will slaughter your names, their tongues an axe; cutting you in pieces. Rest in peace follows you around like a haunting ghost. Or maybe not, because you have become the ghost.
I can imagine it hit your spirit like a stone. Paralyzed your insides; your breath on crutches. The muscles of your heart stumbling to keep everything in place. And those tears that rolled down your face uncontrollably served as a reminder that your body and soul are still one.
One! They wore their ebony folded faces; the lines on their skins dancing viciously like the Holy Bible in the hands of the poor.
One! We helped the pack, and we were told not to cry because clouds, dark clouds, would follow them.
One! They were gone. Gone to be swallowed by the greedy tummy of the earth; labouring for what could have otherwise become theirs.
One! Neo-colonialism happened. Capitalism happened. Anti-Blackness happened. Marikana happened. And slavery kissed them in the cheeks, and shot them when they turned their backs to move.
One! They were on the floor. Dead.
One! They left their homes to make a living, instead making a living took their lives; and they came back as corpses.
One! Their lives were reduced to a hashtag on twitter.
One! She’s gone to the same mine that killed him. And she too might not make it alive, like him.
One! One too many. One compromise too great.
One! You do not matter!
Nothing to see.