As I lay here on the floor,
in a pool of my own blood,
with a broken leg and a severed arm,
and a used tyre around my neck,
I wonder what I’ve done.
I am an African living in the south.
I have a wife and two kids.
I sell newspapers for a living.
I hardly feed my family well enough.
I wonder what my crime is.
I am surrounded by strange faces,
faces I’ve never seen before.
People I’m sure I’ve never wronged,
but they look at me like I stole something.
Like I’m an animal hunted down for sport.
Don’t I look human enough?
Or am I not black enough?
As I made a last attempt to stand,
a hit on my head with a metal object
sent me back to the ground.
They’ve drenched me with fuel,
and are now ready to light their bonfire.
I looked around and saw my wife.
She was hiding nearby, watching.
I couldn’t see my kids.
I had to do something.
I summoned my last strength-
and gave her my last instruction.
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