Yet we survived...
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Have you ever heard the sound of a girl scream as her mother is wretched from her arms?
It is a sound that no one should ever hear in their life time,
as it is shrill and saturated in tears.
It takes the soul from your body and tears it in two,
into sanity and oblivion,
neither functional without the other.
In my tribe, there is a word for sadness,
but this word can not express these feelings of pain.
I feel depression, hopelessness, and sheer hatred for the
white umqwayizis who claim their superiority.
Americans can complain as they wish about higher prices for fuel and foods,
about being poor or loosing a job, even about the hassles they must go through
in order to make their constant divorces final.
To me, these Americans feel nothing like I do, like the rest of the world does.
To you American people, I have but one question to ask:
How would your life progress should you lose everything that you hold dear?
How would you, so snug and warm in your beds, feel to being cast out in the cold
with no one to care for you, and no one to hold you in your times of sorrow.
Only those who have been cast out into the streets, left for dead, and have had to fend for themselves for most of their miserable lives
can feel the same way that I do.
Usizi.
That is the Zulu word of sadness,
the word of my people.
But my words are different, more meaningful.
Mine emulate death, destruction,
and lack of hope.
What is this suffering that can not be described in words,
and can only be shown in spite?
Why do I hate the whites with such a fiery passion?
You want to hear my story, do you?
I thought you'd never ask.
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