Based on a true story.
This isn’t just any form of writing piece
This is life in a form of written art.
This reminds me randomly of childbirth.
What to expect I personally don’t know.

To live a life without any meaning wasn’t new for me.
This reminds me perfectly of that night.
I wave back at death, walking past graves.
Tombstones already written with our names.
They have already planned out our lives,
Are they God to us?

I was shot in the leg thank God they never killed me,
For material things these boys would take a soul
& to them this was just a joke.
Around the same people black as my skin colour,
We had one thing in common.

Why was I not safe?
I thought we had the same dreams
To make it out of this poverty.
If they would come to apologise would you forgive them
& give them a second chance as you were given too by God.
Should I inherit the same hate which runs in the blood
Of my black sisters and brothers from the hood?

The danger was that this society would change
How you carry yourself but still that wasn’t the answer.
Imagine all the sleepless night I once had at the hospital,
I wrote that as if they’re over.
Flashbacks of what happened that day in details,
I’m black remember we don’t go for therapy.

A grown man, that’s me, would cry for his mom
Just to hear a person telling me that one day
I would be able to walk again.
Will I be ever ready for the world?
Healing and moving on has been a process.

This isn’t just any form of writing piece
This is life in a form of written art.
To get me through the day I now depend on pills for the pain.
Don’t end your life by using the same pills;
Don’t finish the job which was started by them
It never worked, do these pills really work.

Then I wake up in the middle of the night screaming for help,
Similar to the way before I was shot
& I had no one but God for back up, even close friends
Were too fast to spread the news around the hood.
I thought you guys loved me at some point.
“Ukukhala kwendoda kuchaza izinto eziningi”