It HURTS, Madam President
Madam President, it HURSTS
We are slowly dying out
One after the other
Yet, the nation enjoys what we offer
And then discard the rest of our being.
Madam President, it HURTS
We are mortalised, praised
In touchy obituaries
Then, frowned upon by those managers
Who dictate the relevance of our lives.
Madam President, it HURTS
When the applause dies away
We feed on warm handshakes
Just to be re-turned to our ravenous lives
Until another occasion reactivates us.
Madam President, it HURTS
Each time we bade farewell
To our forsaken kind
And still be sidelined by Dictatorates;
By Bureacrates with their kindness.
Madam President, it HURTS
And we cannot express
Our muffled pain
Trapped inside this solid HURT
Cemented in our hopelessness.
Madam President, it HURTS
Knowing we long died
Yet, walk this starving earth
Anticipating an expiry date; an open grave
To be cleared, approved and stamped.
Madam President, it HURTS
And we cry silently, solemnly
Choke on our own hurt
Away from these captured audiences;
Very ImPotent mourners, stylistic wailers.
Madam President, It HURTS
Deep, and when tomorrow comes
It will still Hurt
Too for you to hear our gnawing
Amidst the noise in this protocol.
By: Keamogetsi joseph Molapong
(A dedication to Ras Sheehama and many other Artists in Namibia)
