The jingling of cell-keys mark my march to life, the guards here are not friendly so they say little to me. A few mock my resolve and push me around, finding unending pleasure. “King Biko, the hangman awaits” I am not afraid, strange; I am not afraid of death, to me it is a transition to another phase. The republic waits as we walk to the public court where the hangman prepares his tools, an old worn out rope that sailors must have used and a stool with a wobbly leg. There is a crowd already formed, craning necks looking to have a last view of “Laurent Biko”, among them are supporters of the cause and there are also among them those who view me as an enemy of the republic, they know not that all that my life has been for the memories of the beginning, a rotten egg hits my face and I can feel the foul smell of it, someone hits me on my back and I fall to the ground, I can see the morning sun shine, a smooth wind blows against my face. “Sometimes, I tremble like a storm swept flower, and seek to hide my tortured soul from thee, bowing my head in deep humility, before the silent thunder of thy power, sometimes I flee from thy blazing light, as from the specter of pursuing death” As they pull my dying body from the noose, I can see the face of my mother, I can see Cherry, I can hear the winds of home, those songs the children sang at harvest, I can feel it, life. Down the red road, over the pasture grass, up to the school house crumbling on the hill. The older folk are at their peaceful toil, some pulling up the weeds, some plucking corn, and others breaking up the sunbaked soils. Float, faintly scented breeze, at early morn over the earth where mortals sow and reap, beneath its breasts, my dying body lies asleep. Tomorrow’s news written in unfurrowed grammar, “LAURENT BIKO DEAD”
Posted on: Mon, 02 Sep 2013 04:38:11 +0000
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