Dear Mr President

Dear Mr President.

Today a boy child died.

A child filled with potential, a child with a golden smile. A young boy, filled to bursting with education, life and the ability to crack the links in the chains that bind the concrete minds of humanity.

A boy child died in his house, alone surrounded by strangers. The details are not necessary, you know this story well. A soul torn about by rough hands and penetrative stabs of boneless flesh. You know this story well. Broken death.

He was alone when they came through the door, climbed through the window and kicked down the flimsy corrugated iron walls. He was alone and paralysed by his inability to speak to their drugged, minds.

Drugged up by substance, drugged up by corruption, the lack of security, the lack of love, the lack of value to flesh, to skin, to bone, drugged up by the fact that black skin in your country still has no home. How does a child convince a ghost that it is not lost?

Dear Mr President

We are trying to speak to you, people are dying. To speak to you.

The streets are crying blood. To speak to you. Black flesh is bubbling, pulling away from pink flesh, tearing away from bone. To speak to you. Semen is found in lungs, intestines, broken teeth and split gums. To speak to you.

Dear Mr President

A 15 year old boy child was found dead, alone in his house. Raped, living flesh still bleeding, silent room, screaming.  Two men found, one beaten to the ground, skull cracked, brain breeching, the other running around, flames reaching.

Dear Mr President.

A boy child was found dead.

— Poem written for the young boy who was killed in Masiphumelele earlier this week, may you find a place for your soul to rest. —-

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