So called freedom

By Sibongile Portia Jonas

If this so called freedom exists

It must be buried under the bodies of raped and murdered women

It dwells in the millions of squatter camps
It clots in the bloody grounds of Marikana
The pieces of its broken heart tries to cut and crack the feet of feminists
It drowns in the dirty rivers of rural homes where villages drink and bathe
It sleeps in betrayal and feeds on hypocrisy
It showers in corruption and dries its lifeless body with democracies’ ragged constitutions
To the poor it’s an illusion

If this so called freedom exists
Its shaded skin is despairingly being kidnapped by the winds of change
Its fruits bears no seeds for long has its roots rotted
Its 21 year old body is empty, chained to the cross by patriarchy and whipped by masculinity
No punishment too severe, no lie too unclear
Maybe it’s in the water pipes turning Grahamstown taps dry
It’s sold to the highest bidder
A capitalists play ground

A fat cat’s ball of wool
A government informer
Or maybe it floats in the bloodstreams of misogynists awaiting to be freed

Alutha Continua!

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