Waiting for Mr Wright. Chapter 12: Cap in Hand to Capitalism

Musical Freedom and the Chains of Torture

Cap in hand to the invisible men in control.

Cap doffing consumers to the insatiable market forces of Capitalism.

Freedom of choice to partake in it all.

Mental enslavement to the Sugar & Spice and System of acquiring stuff.

Free pills from the Clinic or for a minimal cost.

Sounds right when it heals disease, depression, and mental disorders.

Mentally sound to the addictive sound of the popping of pills.

I constantly cling to a constitution, with a right to protest, to human rights, to protection from the law, to a better life for all.

I metaphorically bleed for the conquering troops. Victims and Victorious.

I repetitively sound the alarm of false teachings,

of the suppression of the free speech of culture.

I consistently die in my dreams,

For the restoration of this ancestral Africa,

For the redemption of the unnamed dead men,

For the rape of untold unnumbered living women,

For the babies in arms,

For the child with arms and with ammunition.

Decapitated with no hand to point out, the man with his trigger finger.

Handcuffed in a cell, for an indefinite time.

Thumb nails crushed in dreams of a better life for our children one day.

Handcuffed to the floor, in a crouch position for days.

Chains on ankles, feet bare on the stone.

Manacled and stretched, hanging freely high up on this prison wall.

Freedom of movement denied.

Free to stand with backs against the wall.

Free trade across continents country borders and kingdoms.

Backhand deals, backlogs of documentation, hands crossed behind the back, hand shakes to determine the fate of the third world.

This equipment is not categorised for military use.

The seller has no legal responsibility.

The middle men dance between embargo and illegal trade.

The end purchaser is free to use this equipment for multiple uses under their own control.

Fearlessly branded as Made in The Republic of South Africa and Made in The United Kingdom.

Free and proudly to stand with banks full on the rocky shores of another land.

Freedom to speak to the television, to the foreign papers, to International news.

Tongueless to beg mercy from dictators and mercenaries.

The Arms Manufacturers and Arms Dealers pursue bribery and corruption with wide open arms.

The Nations are United in distant calls against torture and abuse. Their smiles stretch wide the open purse.

I grew up with stories.

My childhood stories of the noble savage.

Robinson Crusoe’s Man Friday.

Enid Blyton’s Golly Wog.

My slanted history stating historical facts.

The long Kaffir Wars between the Colonist and The Xhosa Kingdom.

The Zulu victory at Isandlwana with the short assegai spears.

Mfecane, the crushing, the scattering, the forced migration.

The rivers run red and down to the sea.

There is blood on my hands despite my innocent plea.

I grew up in the first schools to let the heathen in.

They were multiracial and colourful.

They were now middle-class, yet stripped of their land.

The teachers in this class, their expectations were low, but their grades proved in the upper levels, now a Medical Doctor, he came in the top of the class.

The people of all Colours are free now,

Free to stand with the Blacks against the wall.

I privately long for the cords of the Kora.

I personally am a long long way from a family blood line.

To pass on the music from Grandfather to Father, from Father to Son.

The dowry pounds possession into the recession of our hearts.

However, the djembe pounds history into the arteries of our heart.

Singana, Soul Brothers, Phiri, Madosini, Mhlongo, Amapondo.

Musical bows, uhadi, isitolotolo, marimba, mbira, and listen to the drums in the dark night…