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Behind the write
This is a fictional write exploring life in South Africa. The world celebrated the defeat of apartheid. The question is now, what has changed? To get inside the thoughts of the ghetto is the challenge for this writer. I have taken artistic licence to be a resident of the ghetto. Caution some people may find offence, as the tone at times is sinister and religion is hit too.
Freedom Street
I am in your living room, but do not fear, for I am the news that comes with your dinner. Watch as you eat your steak. Another murder and another riot, these townships of violence know no better, and another Emmy is awarded to Cambridge man. The drama is good, shocking to some, but the advertisers smile, the audience is booked and we can look down in disgust because the camera would never lie.
To see this revolution when brothers kill their own with Goodyear necklace and a lynching from mob justice. Are they the enemy within? These eyes of brown that mirrors do not see for poverty is nothing new to Africa, and the hand of government looks on, pleased with the news today, one for the Man. He who lives beyond this smell, this dealer of lies, who talks with serpent lips spouting democracy from poison script, while hidden claws take the food from red cross house.
My Brother Cain, the business man, though bwana would be better for his plans, and me, you know as ghetto man, though secretly you wish to call me (...)
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He stare’s through the window, In wheelchair he knows,
Gabriel is just a pause behind him. His last duty, to open a door in his mind, of memories torn from 1918. Back to the Sambre Canal, and back to the First World war……….
Behind the Curtains of a church window, men find sanctuary in Prayer. Their words orchestrated by sweat and lice, a rare moment of relief from the world outside.
Beside the cross sits the last candle, flickering precariously, searching for survival. A candle that sits on the wax of candles gone, lit by the hands of the dead. The church has witnessed many men go by, most will never return, but the stale sweat of them still remains. The church walls bare testament to their passing through the graffiti on the walls.
Four years of killing on the Western Front has made life a cheap commodity and to look beyond today is not an option. But the wick on the candle is coming to an end and so are these men. The harvest of war is almost in for this is November 1918.
The church doors open beckoning the living to return to duty for the killing must go on. And in the freedom that it offers a sniper waits to thin the herd once more. Someone will be unlucky, but these men cannot dwell for they have orders to cross the sambre canal
An insignificant water that has a bridge occupied by German forces, but will be remembered by generations to come.
In battle the German guns call like (...)
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