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.