Why are we so attached to the assumed calming of rage?
The storms that brew underneath our skins will blossom as our demons are coming of age.
Do we live in the eyes of said storms or do we waver?
What quarrel does a 17-month-old baby’s body have with a swinging blunt object?
The anger to wrath ratio whittles a stark sculpture.
Is the natural habitat of the wrath required to swing such a blunt object at your neighbour, not the darkest, yet most burning, least discerning, most bottom of a bottomless pit?
Pity a soul so offensive to the senses. So sinful and vile, abhorrently wicked, hateful and diabolic.
We have been here before. LOVE doesn't live here any more, it visits.
Too much for The Fourth Industrial Revolution - We don’t need an internet connection to hack these days.
Heck! These days we hack them with bush knives - Both mother and her two-year-old child, in Phoenix, north of Durban.
Known to our victims, we hack them everywhere, rural and urban.
We flea the scene into a nearby thicket. Only to return with bloodied clothes.
We hack them with sickles - in Budaun city, India.
An inebriated man allegedly hacked his four months pregnant wife, a mother of five young girls with a sickle after a priest predicted that “their sixth child would also be a girl”.
We hack them with axes - in Haryana, India.
A man allegedly murdered his wife, three children and went on the run. He worked as a mason in the area. Neighbours noticed no activity in their temporary shelter and alert police.
Sometimes truth and silence are in opposition, and the common denominator is death.
We hack them with axes - in Protea North, Soweto.
We wait for our kids to go to school, then bash our wives in the head with a mighty force and leave them dead in the bedroom.
Lock the house and leave. Only to call our neighbours, asking them to inform the domestic worker to see what has done in that bedroom.
Woman, there aren't too many options when you are walking on a tree-lined pathway; where are you going to turn to?
We hack you and set ourselves on fire in Limpopo.
We have been a flame to ourselves; a car and the house will feel no pain, they can burn too.
Why wouldn't they? A bird with fire on its tail burns its own nest.
We are birds. There is lava on our tales.
Woman, your crime was watching a bonfire wearing a straw coat, thinking; sometimes you have to throw yourself into a fire to escape the smoke.
But we are not only fires, we are also smoke.
We are a murderous paradox.
One school of thought says we are a naturally peaceful species corrupted by society.
Another says we are a naturally violent species civilised by society.
We are a murderous paradox.
Do not pity the soul of the toddler hacked to death in Limpopo.
Do not pity the dead, as J.K. Rowling in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows wrote;
“pity the living, and, above all those who live without LOVE.”