The demise of the Just

By: Siya K. Ndwandwe

One of our seminarians Siyabonga Ndwandwe prepared the following about the xenophobic attacks, women abuse and murder that has been going on in our neighbouring country. Let us stand in unity!!

Conscience is dead, Couldn’t handle the imprisonment,
The confinement in the wicked human heart,
Justice gave up being just.

Voices of the innocent weeping for serenity, Consternation to reach my flawless life, Fear to explore the world, Fear to be a victim of one’s mistake.

I hear voices of anguish and affliction, Voices groaning in endless agony, Until the smarting murmur is no more,
The sound of torment persist, until nature calls perpetual silence.

My identity is my nemesis, Accent has become my foe, Low-profile is my shield now,
I have become the hunted kill to my own fellow hunters.

My identity is my nemesis, Gender has become my foe, Improper or proper dress-code fails to shield me,
Naked am I, the prey of my own custodian.

My identity is my nemesis, Impotence and trust has become my adversary, Who should be my guardian angel?
When my creator is my enemy?

My melanin was a better adversary, It was defeated for us, in hope of tranquillity to this generation,
Embraced as family those we share the melanin, Submerged barbarism, overshadowed humanity like wildfire.

Voices of men and women perishing in flames, Voices of women and children,
Gradually quietened for good, A barbaric generation we are.

Religious men fear to announce the death of conscience, Scientists fear to announce evolution,
That growth diminishes the human heart, Eventually vanishes forever in adulthood.

Awareness that leaving your compound, Resembles the soul leaving the body gruesomely, is reality,
Breathing heavily while walking on this blood thirsty streets, They never gets satisfied until innocent blood is no more.

Burnt offerings, the streets consume, Bloodshed, the streets perpetrate,
Rape, the streets commit, Murmur of agony, the street’s ideal.

Remorseless generation, Brutal among our own, Relentless crime, slaughter, rape and perilous streets,
Conscience is dead, not yet buried.

High-risk to cry for help, For that is the knife on my throat, For my accent is louder than the message,
My soul is dangling over the cliff, waiting for a single push.