I am tired God Almighty, I am tired of being told that we need to move on, that we need to forget, that we need to put the past behind us, that Apartheid is over.
They don't understand. We never will. Our bodies are monuments of centuries of torture, trauma terror these exist in us we live it every day. We built this country slaves whips at our backs - The Man holding the whip did not build - we built.
Apartheid is not over. No magic TRC wand can bippity-boppity-boo! it away. Our glass carriage is still a pumpkin, rotting, pulled by rats. A polite revolution over tea and crumpets, good Sir, ‘twas the order of the day.
When could we mourn? When could we cry? When could we scream for our loved ones lost our chances trampled on?
Please Mastah Baas Meneer, Asseblief, Gee my ‘n kans om te huil vir my ma en my pa en my susters en broers gee my ‘n kans om te huil.
Let me stand up for myself and for those who stood before me. Let me march for myself and for those who marched before me. Let me call out AMANDLA and raise my fist and let me cry after hundreds of years let me cry.
(UCT, 4th Year B.A. Theatre and Performance)
From half a world away I wait for wifi to watch tyrants toppled by the hands of those tired of shouting into the abyss. People poured libations on the monuments of men (yes, men) who drowned our ancestors with dictionary definitions of who they were. Who they could be. Who we are. Who we can be. But now those bearers have found their pots are empty. We have taken these vessels and thrown them up to shatter ceilings of crystal created to keep us from noticing that it was being lowered onto us. We have seen the vast blackness of night above us. And it is beautiful. Though we have still more to endure we have started to climb out from the holes we were buried in hundreds of years ago. We have cut our feet out of their ball-and-chains and are finally pulling ourselves up. Up towards the beauty of blackness. Up towards the broken fragments of the past. Up towards a vast and expansive future