My first name is not part of me

It’s an imposition imposed by imposters

T’was inflicted upon me like a sting of a bee

It cannot be ruffled as it is the work of glue and fiber.

The language I speak is not mine,

It is a gag gagged on me by gangsters,

Who confiscated my tongue and left me desolate

And bubbling gibberish on Babel towers.

My land is no longer my property,

It’s sold by sellers not known,

It’s miniaturized to a pigsty

Of which I don’t properly own.

The people who used to be my people

Are no longer, but fossils

Which I look down upon with disdain

And regard as ogres without human veins.

May someone hold a fast grip on me?

Before I kill my own colour

And pluck my soul out of my skin

And send what’s left of me to the funeral palour

In the name of freedom.

Abram O Mahlaba