Fusion Of Fact

Seeking International Intervention And Nature’s Helpful Hand

Dispersed, distressed,

Their years yawning, yelling

In the wailing wet wastelands,

The famished farmers are furious,

Deep, trapped in the interior of nowhere,

Devoid of decent days, stamina and sanity,

Done for, dehydrated by deceit and damage,

Drenched in dryness, din, malice and muck,

Scented decline dances in their daily battles

Since a horde of inhuman hoodlums have been

Hanging around, pillaging, preaching foul fibs,

Humiliating the citizens’ greens into badlands

For the past 42 years of bondage and brutality,

After a painful period of 42 years, is there hope?

How can there be a glimmer of hope when we are

Talking of the same tiresome actors who perform

The same notorious acts with a measure of impunity?

Not only are they destructive but they are also in denial,

Remember, the same cabal of brutal, bigoted hooligans

Let loose its ruinous spring rain on innocent, helpless,

And unarmed citizens and sanctified its genocidal

Acts as a moment of madness, and today in the name

Of seeking an obscure, frozen and gimmicky justice

They destroy and desecrate the victims’ memorials

And proclaim, pontificate and posture as holy judges,

Yet their charade and circus is a sick script whose

Aborted result will not heal and deceive the victims,

The survivors and human rightists and the fans of truth-

Telling and healing but will expose how unremorseful,

Insincere and callous the perpetrators are and how they

Have always been so despite their claims to the contrary,

In all honesty, in the name of the spirit of Ubuntu: humanity,

Any programme and performance on the gukurahundi issue

That is not prosecuted and managed by a truly independent

And international body is a failed deception and an affront,

Hence what has been imposed on us is a flawed, failed joke and ploy

That should be condemned in no uncertain terms by the international

Community and all decent, discerning, patriotic and peace-loving Africans,

That scam shouldn’t be foisted upon our fresh, unhealed, unloved wounds

By charlatans who repeatedly molested and reduced a prosperous plot

From a breadbasket of Africa to an African basket case,

Where idleness is a language forced on the youth and all,

Where public hospital patients face a famine of petite

And basic things like painkillers, ATMs and banks, cash,

Drowning in debt, misery and a desperate deprivation,

For spiritual insight, tired tillers have no choice,

Except to look to the constant source of life and love,

They plead with Nature to make their land green again.

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