The last horse ride

Buti Manamela

My last horse ride may be knocking;
It may be coming my way soon,
Too many things I have seen;
Too many things I do speak;
At a bullet pace I face the moon;
The fast-rider is now facing the barn;
To be locked in it forever;
In the haystack with them forever;
With no name and no identity;
And the heavy stone weighing on my chest;
I cannot escape it nor face it;
The weight that lies on my shoulders;
The nightmares that feels like boulders;

I see my victims on this last horse ride;
Lining up to tell me they told me so,
Quite! But I said my sayings!
I am no martyr nor am I martyred,
Lying on the horse-cart with pride;
Beautiful flowers decorating the oak box;
Six golden-ropes to handle with care;
He who took my last breath I may know;
Conversations we held in my last gasp;
My last vowels are in his chest as wasp;
To lay the eggs and hatch the news to come,
Of what my last wishes and declarations were,
Carelessly I whispered to this unkind stranger,
Wishing I had never said the says of my demise;
Wishing I had never provoked the enemies anger,
Wishing I had let injustice become justice,
Wishing I had better known what’s better,
Agape were my lips for injustices I saw;
I say’d the sayings of a principled man
To lift the weight off my shoulders,
But now my sayings remain the boulders.

Scriptures of my ill deeds in scrolled seconds
It is that moment that the horse was saddled with my oak box,
Hearing the bullets that strayed through my body,
Carelessly cursing the master of the trigger happy,
Hoping the last ride could have been designed better,
But there is neither choice nor chance for that,
Had we known that our course was the same,
But mine was mine and his is his,
Hissing n’ kissing underneath the real course that is mine,
And here am I in this saddled oak box,
Wishing I could have altered my thought,
Wishing that my words were better minced and straight,
Hoping I should have reversed my just course,
Letting my selfishness loose was a choice,
I should have unleashed my ignorance,
I should have become another blind man to injustice,
Maybe the victims would have survived,
And the villains changed their minds,
I should have saved myself of meager sins,
But caring and fighting for justice was my meager sin,
It was my demise

And round and round the moon was approaching,
Alight! Said the rough voice of the trigger happy,
Shh! Take your last right of the so called just,
And then the masses were joining in,
Mother crying for the buried child she birthed,
And nearer and nearer it approaches,
Taking me to distances unknown to daughters of the soil,
Leaving no love but turmoil for the tumultuous,
Now that I am not scared of it,
Knowing that I will live in all’s mind,
As a memory that always was
As a spark that lit the fire of freedom,
As a child that cared for the living,
My mind I shall speak,
For in my quietness, evil shall reign
Enjoy the ride!

Freedom lasts forever

Buti Manamela

The chains
that pains
your knuckle
and heels
heeding in silence
the memory of freedom
reaching deep to your heart
racing fast to your blood
knocking hard on your brain

will u give up
will u give them the joy

or

will u appeal to
the strong pound of love
bcoz it keeps knocking
on your arteries
urging you to come in

they drug you
they bamboozle you
until the pain
of the chain
disappears
melts into your veins

the thought of freedom
will break those chains
will be the will of your freedom
coz they are stronger
than the physical form
of pain and chain

And here am I thinking that we are free

Buti Manamela

And here am I thinking that we are free
When the bodies freedom fighters are flea
Ridden and stinking of poverty
Whilst the 1994—or was it the puberty
Of freedom in 1996—unleashed its cruelty

Whilst I’m contemplating the end of struggle
The masses have to smuggle
The food but they deserve because this is freedom,
Not some lousy and worthless piece of fiefdom
Its built on their sweat and their votes that they cast seldom.

And here am I thinking that we are free
When the blood that nourished the tree
Of freedom has desiccated, and the tree
Of freedom is fast dying and its leaves,
Its leaves are departing from the twigs,
Its leaves are losing their green.

And here am I thinking that we are free,
When the colour of our flag black, gold and green
Has lost its meaning, and leaves are weeds
Dried to satisfaction into Plein Street poison
Cape Town, Mother City, puffed in the wee
Hours of the morning, when we are free
But all we are is the weed-smoke that melts into air
And Bamboozles us to forget the Azanian Dream

And here am I thinking that we are free
When the liberators are not free
But have become the oppressors of the people.
Snatching their beloved staple
Bread from their mouth and water,
Water to water the tree of our thirst.

And here am I thinking that we are free,
When the next Gear of freedom is the
One that take our 1994 and replaces it with
Their 1996, it takes our jobs, it takes our life,
And when the vote time comes… it gets spiked.

And here am I thinking that we are free,
That the demon of Apartheid has been buried under the tree
Of Solomon Mahlangu as evidence that we are free
And that his blood was not shed in vein
But the chains of bondage no longer reign

And here am I thinking that we are free
When the land that held the tree
Of freedom is still in the hands of the oppressors
And our liberators are pretenders not successors
To the throne that deceives me to think that we are free.

And here am I thinking that we are free
But we are not, except some few in pink shirts
And sharp-nosed shoez as they flirt
With the former oppressor to get a slice
Of the pie when the masses are told lies.

And here am I thinking that we are free
When the price paid was not enough for freedom
And could only afford to pay for the freedom
Of few. Whilst the many, they wonder asunder
Whether their tickets will lead them to the plunder.
Whether the fare is fit for the gravy-train.

And here am I thinking that we are freed
Forgetting that our oppression was about greed
Of the few who had the gun and the will
To keep us drowning into the chains of bondage
And whatever the cost, they will pay our few
As a retainer fee to guarantee their wealth.

And here am I thinking that we are free
When the ultimate price of freedom
Is the violence that should be paid
On delivery of our freedom. And we were short,
Short of the one nine nine four pence required.
We may be free, but we are short,
Though our freedom was fully paid.