For Charity and Francis Matyaka

Unable to move, she watch them drag him
from the house into a donga
and beat him, one goon opening his body
to pour blood into the ditch,
like wine seeking the whiteness of cloth
that cover the brains of boys
and redden their eyes with joy.
Everyone try not to look
but go their way into the dim June dusk
to their families.
Even God don’t interfere
when they beat people like this
with sjambok and machete.
They killed him, killed him as I watched, she say,
speaking to no one in particular.
He wailed, but they kept on beating him quietly.
The women shake their heads and speak
in subdued dialect
of herd boy who find a half-clothed body,
half-eaten by hyenas. She wail some more,
as harpooned whale do.
Her hands hold her head
like she want to unscrew it
and give it back to God.
The women tut-tut and shake their heads
to see her wail like this.
Night come into the lighting of lamps,
and everyone shout
to call daughter or son to table
for a bit of pap and soup, after
the ritual of water and soap.
© Rethabile Masilo

NOTE: This poem was "inspired" by the story of the Matyaka family. Today, Friday 27 June 2008, Robert Mugabe is staging a sham election in Zimbabwe. I decided to post "For Charity and Francis Matyaka" today. I will continue to work on it online. If you need more information about the tragedy in Zimbabwe, here's a link. Have a good weekend.

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