The wind from the South is hot
I feel and see a windfall of intolerance.
This windmill is powered by unseen,
hateful but powerful hands.
The windfall of destruction is heavy.
All around me, it is wind of death.
My windows are shaking; my feet feverish –
at the sight and sound of angry ‘protesters’ marching towards me.
From Tshwane to Joburg,
the cry is loud and deep
as Cities take turns to torment me.
Children from Abidjan to Lagos
are crying out loud:
when will the windstorm stop?
The women’s hearts are pounding & asking:
who will be our windshield?
And when will this script windup?