I had intended to post something fun and light-hearted today. But sometimes I read a post on one of my favourite blogs and I find that it colours the rest of my day. This happened today when I read this post. Somehow, when I have read something like that, funny and fluffy just doesn't do it for me anymore.
It's indeed a mad, mad world
I then had a browse on Rethabile's blog and found this poem, also relating to the situation in Zim. It struck a chord with me. It made me realise that while I am messing about with my daily life, people in Zimbabwe are in excrutiating pain.
For Charity and Francis Matyaka
Unable to move, she watch them drag him
from the house into a donga
and beat him, one goon opening his body
to pour blood into the off-colour ditch,
like wine seeking the whiteness of cloth
that cover the brains of boys
and redden their eyes.Everyone try not to look
but go their way into the dim June dusk
to their families.
Even God don’t interfere
when they beat people like this
with sjambok and machete.
They killed him, killed him as I watched, she say,
speaking to no one in particular.
He wailed, but they kept on beating him quietly.
The women shake their heads and speak
in subdued dialect
of herd boy who find a half-clothed body,
half-eaten by hyenas. She wail some more,
as harpooned whale do.
Her hands hold her head
like she want to unscrew it
and give it back to God.
The women tut-tut and shake their heads
to see her wail like that.
Night come, and soon it is
the lighting of lamps, and everyone shout
to call daughter or son to table
for a bit of pap and soup, after
the ritual of water and soap.
© Rethabile Masilo
NOTE: This poem was "inspired" by the story of the Matyaka family.
Printed with permission
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