Author: © Luvuyo Mkangelwa
Republished from Jack Magazine (2000-2010) Issue 5–the South Africa poetry feature–with permission of acquisitions editor Michael Rothenberg
Type: Poetry
The Martyrs’ Speak (21 March 2002)
I fell for you,
bit the dust and bled the stone
that left me with a toothless smile
the blood tasted sweet
when I saw you make your mark
on the page printed with my rage
I took your cross,
hammered my hands on its arms
for my spirit to soar, but hey
when you slept through today
and she went shopping
and he woke up stoned without a thought
just a little, a minute, for me
It is then that I realised
your value
of the price
of my strife
yet you cry some things never change
and i say;
this was once
Sharpeville day,
Human Rights day
what shall it be tomorrow?
or rather,
what
will you be doing?
How then
How then, tell me
do I give you wings
when you dismember me
for the little cent
I have for me
you take for candy
you little big child
Am I not your brother
now that I have
risen above
the poverty we’re born in
yet not rich
but then maybe,
maybe this is wealth for you
but still, how then
do I…
cos Toto’s getting a gun
says tit for tat to anyone
that dares lift a hand
even if it’s a salute – hola seven
equals hola six under
and he’ll see about that later
How then,
do I walk with the freedom
of a citizen in my mind
in a state of emergency
from a youth
with clenched hands, not fists
screaming vaya not viva
to my life
For my daughter, Athule
b. 14.09.99
d. 12.03.01
We had breathed a sigh of relief
and as if that was not enough
you had one more up your sleeve
you would never tell but just leave
Bucketfuls she wept, for you her tiny gift
an autumn leaf blown away in spring
that danced to the breeze of summer
babbled winter blues in her ear
tucking your head in her warm bosom
Were you mad she did not understand
what you were saying all along
that you were on a brief visit
& no one could change that
were you mad at my absence
Did you try to ask her about me
do you know that she wailed
for you had earlier waved goodbye
that she asks if you’ve really left
whether you’ll ever come by
Do you know, how she wanted to hold you
& the elders said no, Athule
I thought you should know
we think of you, still love you
But as much as you waved goodbye
it looked like just your usual play
if you meant it was time to leave
my girl, you had one hell of a sleeve
