As political dust
settles over the creaking metals of demonically demolished houses in the forgotten
dark streets of Lenasia, I would like to acknowledge the presence of the powers
that be - in absentia.
First and uttermost
on my list is the honourable minister, whose cops greeted protesters with gas
from a tear-jerking canister, as we watch the dodgy story of our liberation
brutally unfold in our eyes, while the comatose public continues to be
force-fed campaign speeches through the intravenous life support system of
lies.
Rebelling youth
suddenly mushrooming in demand of land, screaming “fighters, let’s join the
band.” Depending on whether you can laugh or sing, the entire debacle either
evokes comedic feelings or the sadness that comes with the regret of a dying
fling. So, where to my friends? Should we stay with the seasonal ballot
parasites or go gallivanting in sanguine berets with our drunken fiends? Or is
it better to just lounge on the couch while the country slithers hound-ward?
Quite a devil in between being a rebel with a lost cause and admitting to being
incorrigibly coward. For how do we take back land that was stolen when our
hands are already in our people’s purse two hundred times a whopping million?
It’s willing buyer willing seller, let that beautiful couple hand over the
acres for a billion. Who’s Rand is it anyway?
Who suffers when investors run away?
Indeed, the people
shall govern, and of course, down by the broken seats of the rowdy tavern.
So, I suggest we go
dancing before December, and if you can’t you just can't, but I hope you remember:
I’m Simply Tshwa
And I love you
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