What was would never again be. The vision had to end along with the spell and after the idyllic inanimate suspension – that lasted for just a few seconds or maybe many lifetimes – I knew with perfect clarity that Africa would not stop burning until every African had a home: until we owned our land again, irrefutably mine because this is where my ancestor’s bones lie interred, but not forgotten. Not yet.
Or maybe until we no longer subscribed to an imposed, capitalist notion of ownership and tenure; of title deeds and boundary fences and land claims and dispossession and repossession: of land having been taken with bloody force and claimed in the name of foreign Kings and Queens who have never felt this African soil against their naked soles – never felt any love for beautiful mother Africa in their desolate souls.
Imperialist warlords, hell-bent on spreading their suffragist tyranny in the name of an atrocious progress that raped an entire continent to fill their stately coffers while Africans were left to die of starvation without home or heritage. Praying to a fairy-tale Jesus sold to us by missionaries who were themselves duped into believing that there was an almighty-something, somewhere out there who wanted us to suffer so that we may learn how to be docile and unthinking.
And today while Africa is still burning their hands have been washed clean as they send boxes of Bibles, convoys and consultants and foreign aid by way of an insincere apology.
The brutish Dutch and British savages who came to South Africa and fucked it up royally before turning around and arrogantly insisting that the natives should be grateful and forgiving, saying: “But we did it for you!”
It’s like kidnapping a child and raping her brutally before giving her a home video of the ordeal and some small change to pay for the abortion.
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