When I say: I am made of the red soil, pressed in with welcomed footprints of our spoken stories,

I believe it.

When I say: I am filled with the sun’s rays, shining down on me as a mother’s touch,

I feel it.


I do not say this lightly.


When you, white man,

Laugh at the spirit I know flows through my bruised fingertips and swollen toes,

Can’t you see you’re tearing me apart?

Your ideas, your atheism –

You clash with my motherland pulsing through my soul

My spirit.

And you crush me

Again and again.