Wale Street, 12.01 am, the old flag hangs
above the toyi-toyi crowd, pegged four-square
by bullet-vest cops who quiver like antennae,
tense for the dull, thud, thwomp of detonation.
Down an alleyway, hunched against a wall, I
watch a fat-beer-boep Boer on a balcony step
towards the flagpole. Crowd-eyes lift as the
flaccid flag flutters a death rattle in a whorl
of wind as weak as impotence – one last gasp
before she crumples and is wound down, as limp
as a body bereft of breath, like Biko, Turner, Kriel,
Goniwe and thousands more whose tombstones stand
as milestones to this moment. Survivors of
blood-smeared cells, where skulls were cracked,
bear witness. They dreamed of this, no less
those who lived the everyday jip-jibe insult,
of kaffir, coon, Hotnot, boy, girl. Bring it
down, this symbol of oppression of race-hate,
down, bring the mother down, down to the ground,
down to the ground. Rise up singing, “Nkosi
Sikelel iAfrica” under this pale midnight
moon as red flares whoosh up-turned faces
rouge, sing, sing, the new flag’s ascent,
wound tight as a clenched-fist salute “Amandla,”
Awethu, Amandla” chant away the hurt, chant
away the tears, chant away the heartache,
feed now on this unfurling this shuddering
deliverance from suffering, shout triumphant,
“God bless Africa, Nkosi Sikelel. God bless
this uprising, this release, this fuck-them-all
sweet taste of victory. Lump-throated, eyes misting,
I wheel from the wall cupping this moment,
to drink as a toast and salute to our future.