The Child Is Still Alive
(in answer to Ingrid Jonker)
The child is still alive,
his spirit nobody can extinguish,
the small fists of the child hits on its mother's back
where she is carrying him
and out of control the child is crying
when his mother screams Africa and amandla
or like a Voortrekker woman with bare feet
try to find a way in the veldt to wild fruits
with snot that runs from his nose over his cheeks
where paper thin dogs run away scared
and a murderous crowd walks in the street,
but the child's voice
is swallowed by the roar of the crowd.
The whole country is degenerating
with cities becoming hovels overnight,
in anger the child lifts his fists against his father,
throws bricks and stones that fall like hail
and his father is without a job,
while people stream in from other countries
to fill all the vacant positions
and people walk in mass riots
while they scream Africa and amandla,
the child has a blown up stomach and is emaciated
and smells of human refuse.
The child is still alive,
his spirit nobody can extinguish,
not in Soweto, or at Thembisa, or in Sunnyside
or Hillbrow or wherever,
everywhere his toddler sister is raped
to rescue barbaric adult males
from AIDS,
or for the medicine of witchdoctors
she is cut apart
and however the child is suffering
he still is alive.
The child is still alive,
his spirit nobody can extinguish,
and he grows rebellious
while education degenerates
to human rights and politics
where knowledge, own values
and religion is been unlearned
and the child realises
that he will have no kind of future.
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poem by Gert Strydom
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