Marikana: the gold, the dust & the women

I am the woman you overlook. I cannot speak English. My husband is the one shot at Marikana. I am her. These feet are hers. The earth knows me because my feet dance until the dust speaks. Dust to dust. Dust. It’s dusk and the dust will confess what it knows.

I am the impoverished woman. I am the one who wears jewels on my ankles to make music for the soil. The soil knows my name.

The soil knows the souls it hides for it hid them in gold mines long before they were shot. It hid them and hit them with rocks of gold to enrich men in suits who have not danced for a day in their lives.

Men who don’t know the smell of dust. Men made of dust who postpone their death with shiny gold that drips with our blood, but they do not see it.

They kiss bars of platinum and bars of gold counting their wealth but that gold too is dust. First it passed through our dancing feet. Blood stained wealth. Our men are that gold we bury, that gold that is only dust to men in suits.

They kiss the gold and forget about us because we are but dust to them. They kiss the blood stained gold but it is dust for our souls live forever. Gold perishes.

The dust knows that. Men in suits worship dust with our blood as sacrifice. The dust knows. The dust will one day speak. So I make music with the soles of my feet.

I wear jewels on my feet to awake the dead from their slumber. I do not speak English, nor does this dust.


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