Prose

Rape: The night the day slept.

Little girls ran in the fields in their torn pants,
Tossing laughters into the air,
And sharing purple coloured giggles.
Teenage girls and women, young and old, walked down dusty paths barely clad,
In mists of folksongs,
In day time,
At night,
With moonlight,
And without,
To fetch bubbles of life from the stream that ran over hanging roots.
No one fretted at home.
They would be back,
In the same vivacious mood as when they departed.
That was yesterday,
The day we now beseech God to recreate.
Today, little girls must stay home and watch the beauties of the world behind bars,
And be taught about the roving hands of “Uncle”.
Today, teenage girls and women, must wear iron girdles, constantly, and cast their eyes straight up over the land like squirrels ready to flee at the drop of fright.
Today, the dogs are out on the streets,
Let loose the night the day slept,
When the Emperor and his Generals revelled and stocked their stomachs with loot,
While the land slowly rolled down the hill.
Today, the dogs that used to lurk
Behind the shield of dusk,
In fear of public odium
To hunt for those to rape.
Now knock on our doors,
Command us like the sodomites,
To bring forth our daughters,
To violate their sanctity,
To slaughter them like fowls
And hang their bodies on our doorposts.
Today, coder of our laws,
Claiming to be in a state of umbrage
Call down righteous swords from heaven
To amputate the phalluses of offenders
But their phalluses bleed fresh blood
And we know why.
Until the land is cleansed with fire,
The dogs will remain out,
And everywhere like locusts
From the edge of the Kalahari desert.

Publisher and Editor-in-Chief

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Publisher and Editor-in-Chief, Newspackng.
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