He told tales…
Sad tales of the black child.
He spoke of how he was shackled,
Chained and sold.
He related to me
Stories of slavery,
How the black child went from
Being king,
To a servant,
Even though he once ruled
And lavished in his pride,
For royalty sake of his kingdom, Africa.

He took me on a journey,
Far over centuries,
Well out of time,
Outside the bounds of our realm.
I saw things I’d never seen,
I heard things I’d never heard,
I felt things I’d never felt.
I saw death
I heard  cries
And I was petrified.

I saw more and more and more death.
The black child disgraced,
Stripped,
Shot,
Hanged,
Whipped
Yet, even more and more and more black children were born.
Each stronger than the ones before
They were brave.
And they fought back.
Against the system,
Against the whip slinger,
Against the nigger caller,
Against the kaffer commander,
Because he was told that he was a king.
He was told this because the ones before never forgot.

The legend said that our escapades weren’t for sheer entertainment,
He said that he needed to remind me, a black child
Of my ancestors’ story.
To show me that
For as long as the black child lives
A struggle will always lurk.
But, for as  long as the struggle lurks
My ancestry has fortified me
And boldness resides in me.
Adequate enough to fight
And find with all my might.

Then he asked
“What are you fighting for child?’
Before I could answer,
My vision cleared
And my eyes opened to the view of the ceiling,
With my mouth open
And tears streaming down my cheeks.
It was all a dream….

By Moshibudi Thatego Madia

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