I was standing at the 3rd floor window of my flat
Exploring the beautiful view of night Soweto
I happen to notice a stranger picking up from a bin
A black man, late 20’s, ripped himself around by a dirty blanket
He seems not to find a thing in the bin, i can feel his anger by the way he kicks it
I can feel his hunger scratching my tummy, and tears start to fall out of guilt
Which reminds me of my father, and his fathers’s black codes, ethos
When that once gave life, love, ubuntu
And back then your poor and my rich stood for all, like birds of the sky, and animals of the earth
I cried your tears, I mean I was black too.
And that’s how my culture was born, I was born.
He starts to walk away and sees me looking down at him, but doesn’t care.
I track him untill the end of the window as he disappears in the dark of no hope, and no eyes, he turns once more to see if i’m still there.
I now wonder if that’s the only difference, him down there, and me up here?
So I still feel his eyes looking up at the guy from the window, because I wasn’t him, at least I didn’t feel like him for that moment
These were perhaps little distress
And daily acts of no conseguence
Then no men is born to be poor
Then no men is born to be rich
