Ingrid Jonker

The child who was shot dead by soldiers at Nyanga

The child is not dead

the child lifts his fists against his mother who shouts Afrika! shouts the breath of freedom and the veld in the locations of the cordoned heart

The child lifts his fists against his father in the march of the generations who shout Afrika! shout the breath of righteousness and blood in the streets of his embattled pride

The child is not dead

not at Langa nor at Nyanga not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville nor at the police station at Phillippi where he lies with a bullet through his brain

The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers

on guard with rifles, saracens and batons the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings the child peers through the windows of houses

and into the hearts of mothers this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere

the child grown to a man treks through all Africa the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world

Without a pass

Ingrid Jonker

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