Khumo was a bright boy,

Full of energy vibes,

From a young age.

Great soccer player,

Smart in class,

And well behaved.

Community paid attention,

His family was aware,

His peers noticed.

He was ahead of his time,

A go to man always,

With current affairs.

But that soon took a turn,

The envy became too much,

And he was targeted.

His gift became a curse,

His persona became a pain,

From all round destruction.

Words came his way,

Sharpen like a knife,

Ready to destroy him.

Words from his family,

Words from his peers,

From all directions.

Words loaded with ammunition,

Words armed full with live bullets,

Weapon of mass destruction .

His dad, “You think you’re better”

His mom, “Who do you think you are?”

His brother, “I’m better than you.”

Home cooked criticism.

Khumo was used to criticism,

Coming from the streets,

But this one hits from home.

Poor boy was hits hard,

By the family attacks,

And all its vernom.

He was ridiculed by the world,

Not because he smoke dagga,

Not because he swore at elders,

But because he was a smart boy.

Him family was never ready for him,

His village was not ready for him,

And the world at large.

Poor Khumo lived with scars,

Of being hated for no reason,

But for being HIMSELF.