Somewhere in the core of my country
dwells a cancer – seeping deep into the crevices of our livelihoods
that won’t let the child learn without first having to burn tyres.
When the child could remedy the land of its wailing wounds
and forgo its inherited injustices.
Who could paint our story anew
on a blank canvas of boundless possibilities.
But will the child ever be absolved of the price of the past, and the high cost of education?
When somewhere in my country
scenes of the past replay like déjà vu:
police hurling teargas and stun grenades at peaceful protesters stressing simply that higher education #FeesMustFall
– filling the air with the same billows of blinding smoke and pandemonium reminiscent of ’76.
When boots are blown off of feet, skin scathed: Black bodies desecrated,
while the government nod in approval.
Ashraf Booley is a young poet from Cape Town and
works as a digital content producer by day where he
writes about food. He started penning poetry in his early
teens, mainly as a means of catharsis. Later he found
himself writing in response to oppressive institutions,
the intersections of gender and sex and social inequalities,
among other things. Few things in life fill his heart with joy
as much as writing, cooking and spending time with his