At Hillbrow, a Zimbabwean girl curls in darkness before a growing
night. She is one of three million Zimbabweans who have to flee to South Africa.
Only her eyes glow in perpetual hunger, her neurones numbed by daily beatings
from her Nigerian master. She is a tree now, other girls from Kwekwe seem to
see her in borderless sunsets beckoning them to come. In the eyes of another sun
she longs to die but not before her earnings slay in dreamless sleep the
drought of lives succumbing slowly. Her mind, body and tonight her smile is
encrusted on this debt. There is dearth in dryness, she says in impeccable English,
Can I be your master for tonight, Sir, I will show you what even the cranial saw
wouldn’t show after you have sawed my skull in a bid to understand the cause of
my death. I live through many a death, each one seem to ridicule the other in
its severity. Each death lives through
many others like many birds perched at an infinite corner of a shadeless sky.
And as I idly die I laugh at the vulnerability of your godless seasons and even
at a person like you who have thoughtlessly caught up on writing about me. You wouldn’t
believe, I have an honors degree in English. I tore it to bits after humans
tore my humanitarian time. She left me finally in neon bright on other strata,
swinging her hips towards a darkness dressed as a car purring in the far
corner.
Strangely, I think of my colleagues in Medicine who long to
believe that that they have finally reached time’s expected boundary where
nothing really matters beyond that.
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