One of many black brothers in Africa
Terrorised with rattling guns and petrol bombs
He fled his country, to live in exile
Upon foreign land with abundant treasures
Working underground in a diamond mine
For the sake of his two beloved children
Wearing oily tainted grey overalls

A cold wind blows as the red sun sets
Dragging his worn out feet on a rocky gravel road
The way back home is agonisingly distant
Not far in the mist, a squadron of vicious men
Wait to pounce on him, like a hungry wolf pack
They say, “Here he comes, that Makwere-Kwere.”
Silver knives are drawn and long iron pangas

Disorder erupts when he makes eye contact
Falling in the trap of a xenophobic society
He runs left then right, but there’s no way out
The dogs scatter around him, gnawing their sharp teeth
“Kill the bastard,” they jubilantly say
My brother from another mother, burnt in flames that day
All because he was Zimbabwean

Lazola Pambo