We sit, sentenced, amongst fellow brothers
Like roaches in a congregation of broilers
How did this come about?
Will they spell our crimes aloud?
Of course not;
For our cries avail nought
Perhaps we’re the guilty lot
Hence this is our lot
If only we were not wander lust
Our feet would never have been lost
In the soils of our brothers’ household
After all, introversy might still be a stronghold
But here we are at the mercy of brothers
I am not satisfied
My victimization is yet unjustified
What is my part in this restlessness?
How am I deserving of this wickedness?
Perhaps this was meant to be an isle of coconut palms
And I am but an intrusive raffia palm
Diluting this hallowed plane,
With my presence so mean and plain
Who is to judge this injustice?
To whom shall our plight come to their notice?
Shall we call upon them who dwell across the seas,
To precide over all we everyday see?
Who within this shores,
Can call this house to order?
Who will wash these putrid sores,
Which we inflict on each other?
Perhaps at the mercy of brothers,
We mean nothing to each other.
Say NO to the looting of foreigners’ shops in Pretoria, South Africa.