I will write and I will riot

If she is black and poor then to her may I be a loyal servant.
May I concern myself with the poverty that has concerned her.
I will write for her sake at times, for it conflicts me that she is still often defined solely by the quality of her womb.
I will write of my frailty in this regard... for I too sometimes only see her that way.

And so I will present honesty pieces of my eternity short lived, not for my reader's sake, but my own.
For I will not to have to look back tomorrow and doubt the cognitive conflict I am going through.

I reflect on the works of my predecessors and I am inspired.
I acknowledge modern day role-players and contemporaries.
I feed off the energy of my peers as we share stories of our backgrounds together.
I will write of the common goals and champion the common cause we have.
We are black.

I will write what affects me.
I will write that it may affect others.
I write out unto my saviours and in hope, I hope, that in the process I will save others.

I write as one who has heard the war cry.
With pens and thumbs beating the drums to the sound for the call to arms.
I join the mob assembling with 'QWERTY' pads and keyboards declaring the blood of those who died revolting.

I uncover the truth behind the jests...how we have embraced the omission of certain parts of their language medium.
It serves as a parable to me: that there will always be something missing- my speech feeds off the criticism it receives.

I am the subject of my writings.
They are paragraphs of a vision.
They are narratives of a single eye beholding the answers within a question.

I am conflicted.
I write to afflict my confliction.
I write to remedy my crisis.
I write for the sanity of my person.
I write to be at peace with myself.
Beyond the objectivity of rational thought and cogent arguments...I will write because I have found it okay to be otherwise.

Sarafina: my Black awakening

Last night I found myself randomly deciding to watch Sarafina: the south african musical depicting the riots that took place- with much bloodshed- in the dusty streets of soweto.

It wasn't the first time watching it... I remember watching this production of the birth pangs of our freedom many years ago. I was barely a teenager.
It was just an intriguing movie back then. A movie that just helped contrast life before and after 1994-that's all.
But this time around it was different. Last night as I watched it, I empathized. I watched it and i was moved. I identified and I cried.

I am moved by the reality of the account. I am not moved by the wonderful script neither am I moved by the exceptional acting. I am moved by the truth behind it. The fact that it is truly a dramatization of genuine events that took place. I am gripped by the reality that actual human beings (each having ONE LIFE like you and I) had their lives snuffed out unfairly so. I am moved by how marginalized the sanctity of human life is under a system which dehumanizes its victims. I am moved by the fact that they were young, just like I am. I cry because they were black- just like me to.

I am in fear, somewhat of the indignation which wells up within me as I ponder on the context of these happenings. The passion joins my sentiments provoking my consciousness. It is personal now.

I am gripped by the reality that I too could have been born in such a time as that and have suffered the same fate. I am gripped with the thought that I too could have died, exasperated by the system.
That fact that what killed them could have easily killed me too.
The consternation and the conflict that these facts create pricks me.

What were they fighting for?
Who were they fighting for?
What cause were they championing?
Did they die in vain?
Which cause am I fighting today?

Am i free?

It beckons me to admit that I am in no need of any intellectual responses to these questions. For when I was a child I watched my history for the schematic reasoning of the timeline.
But today it is different.
It is the cry within me that poses these questions towards me today, leaving me to ponder:
As a young black South African today...

Am I free?