Poem by Marc Aupiais
I'd been labelled.
I'd been accused,
Tried, convicted.
Neo-Liberal- the class accused.
When I defended the wizards,
And said they had human rights too.
She'd spoken of a trial,
How she watched them confess.
She never mentioned the burning,
Though we all knew it implied.
And here I was.
Driving north.
Deathly black clouds.
Mythic mists.
Death by night.
A strange feeling.
Elephants. Hyenas. At night!
And though I argued.
For their lives.
Those accused of witchcraft.
Those murdered lives.
In the Northern Country,
I wondered at the lies.
Devil's own land.
And people less civilised.
They'd kill me as easily as their witches.
I told myself,
As I hoped to drive past.
And seeing a hyena.
Right by our car.
I swear he was calling.
His mistress. It's time.
And though I left Up North,
Where the massacres still occur.
Women and their babies,
Children young and old.
Soaked in gasoline.
The child forced to set mother alight.
The child killed also,
As with possession,
With house.
The "New South Africa"
They wanted.
Where witches never survive.
I drive quietly by.
And pray I never here do
Roll fate's dice.
For here, one rolls the die.
And though I'm white,
Not black,
Man, not woman.
Not witch.
Just the God forsaken
"Little White Dog"
Enemy to be quickly shot.
Yet I wonder at our nation.
And the unaccountable lives.
