Under the ground we were eagles.
There were many reasons why we kept on digging.
Under the ground there was something hidden.
It was the garden of Eden.
From a distance we could see it.
We could smell the fruits. How desirable they were.
We could hear the earth speak. How melodious it was.
It danced to the symphony of our pickaxes.
To the melody of our carving chisels.
But it was our own sweat that we tasted.
It was always foul. The compensation was worse.
Some of us never emerge from the soil.
They never left this grave. This mine. This slavery.
Under the ground we were never in the eye of the storm.
Calmness was a myth. We lived through typhoons with our hands bleeding. Yet we kept on digging.
For our mothers and daughters. Our sons and our fathers.
And all their forefathers.
Those desirable fruits we smelled; that garden of Eden, they all kept moving further with every hammer strike on rocks.
That ground became futile to our kind.
Our empty arms were holding our wives hostage.
We had nothing to offer.
It was clear. They were masters and we were minions.
Even if it shimmers with gold. A grave is still a grave.
Those tools started weighing heavy on our limbs when our cries started falling on deaf ears.
Our limbs started weighing heavy on our bodies when food became a luxury.
The payment was no longer worth the dust.
The dust was waiting for us to lay on it.
The police were ready to lay us on it.
The police laid us on it!
When dust rose it swallowed us whole.
The only things that penetrated that cloud were flying projectiles.
Bullets were thirsty. They quenched their thirst on our skin.
We learnt the hard way that a green blanket isn’t bulletproof.
Do you remember when we died?
Waiting, singing, we sat on a hill.
The night was young.
Our shovels were clean.
We were preparing for an eternal sleep.
We have killed ourselves many a time before when we entered that grave. That mine. That slavery.
A physical death was a mere formality.
For far too long we had been flirting with immortality. We have yearned for a spacewalk.
For our light to forever shine and for as long as through flesh we breathe.
The night was always young enough for us to continue to dig.
But on that day digging was not an option.
On that day death was the only resolution.
On that day we died to live.
To clothe our children. To buy candles for them to study in the dark.
To patch holes on our shacks.
Invest in a new bucket for that trip to the communal taps.
Maybe a wheelbarrow too, to limit the water fetching trips and spend a bit more time with our families.
Just 34 more minutes before going back to that grave. That mine. That slavery where police will shoot us down. A minute for each of our souls.
A minute for every reason why we kept on digging.
Under the ground there was something hidden.
It was the garden of Eden.
We could smell the fruits. How desirable they were.
We could hear the earth speak. How melodious it was.
It whispered a disarming spell of death in our ears.
@OpusPoetry