Why have you left your Turtle Island home and spread your arms over Mzansi, our land of gold and sunshine turned silver frost. Will this winter wonderland become our hungerland? 

Maybe I’d bring you a bunch of sweet orange flowers. Is it ironic that I planted marigolds used to honor the dead? Is it ironic that love has never felt more alive? I’m never one to remember faces, but I can still see you staring at me. Except now it’s like black and white film without color. And I'm...

Cry with me, Mother, and let our teardrops turn to rock. You can strike me until I shatter into a million pieces: I will become the sands...