You Know What’s True
Justice is the grandmother on the roadside, her wares carefully staged
To attract Mango lovers.
She looks up to the fine young lady
Who sneers with coin toss and bags fruit.
Grandma does what she must.
School fees must be paid —
Doesn’t matter how much dust she swallows.
She’ll be back tomorrow — life is never late.
Call me yellow. Black. Brown. Red.
Hold my tongue — like ugly lead.
Write my story without my pen.
Only victors decide what’s to be left undead.
Justice caves in at the airport on the day before a holiday.
She’s swamped for speed, anxious, passing tickets to angrier neighbors.
Her snarl is not a maskt, it’s —
Pressure built from a thousand cuts, a thousand slurs.
What happens to cheeks that smile hard while being slapped?
Spirits on a boat.
Dead yonder — dead hope.
Chains heavier than heart’s load.
Ebbing ink — same through media veins flow.
Justice stammers in the guest’s house.
Language unknown, new customs rites.
Should he pray, before, during or after the meal?
Should he pray on the mat, at all, or on the hill?
If there’s a God over this house blue, round, when should he visit? When is he not around?
Migrant mauling over methods to move.
Myriad ways, wits ends, nothing here to choose.
Desert. Sea. Air.
Who planted greener pastures over there?
Justice can’t stay dead for too long. If you bow long enough, her ghost shrieks- her blood erupts : a thousand suns burnt, a thousand sons dead.
She comes at night, at dawn, at dusk, on the street, on the living room.
She’ll take what’s hers, our soul is the task.
“Treat others as you would want to be treated”
I say persecute others as you would want to be persecuted.
It starts with me. It starts with you.
You know what’s true. You know what’s true