I have seen in Bholokodlela

Dark houses that used to be white depicting the suffering.
Of old cupboards decorated with the bottles of fish eagles.
Dark Expensive bottles which brands their sons.
Who could not buy a cloth or a grain of rice for their mothers?

Obviously something is wrong in my father’s village, in my country.
That has been shown by the rummage of my brothers and sisters.
They have no shame or honour to defend, but taverns to occupy.
They drink as if alcohol is going out of fashion, of theirs.

I refuse to believe we shared the same breasts.
Maybe they were breastfed with liquor.
I smell the odour in their vulgar gasps.
Which can be traced in their big brownish tooth when they sigh?

Where are the gospel preachers and elders to show us the way?
Are they the ones who are also in these taverns owned by our mothers?

I am throwing in the towel.