The dead cannot talk

Your body was laid to rest the other day

We interred your remains:

the clothes you wore

your shoes, the wrist watch

still ticking to tell us endlessly

the changing of the seasons

the signs of the times

 

We buried your football skills

But we failed to bury your soul.

Your spirit lives on

Your passion for the wellbeing of our nation

Your zeal to stop the decomposition of our freedom

No chikwanje can hack to death

No stiletto can pierce to oblivion

No blow can hurl into the void of non-existence.

 

The morning we found you

After the cloak of night opened up to shed light on the truth

The lie on which you lay bore no marks

No signs to shore up the official explanation of the evil deed.

 

They say you left farewell notes

Yet the deed is not in keeping with the strength of your spirit.

 

Your pursuit for the truth

Your inability to suffer in silence

Threatened to derail the construction of private palaces

Shook the foundation of best laid plans to keep it in the family

But the Truth does not die.

 

They find comfort in the fact that the dead cannot talk

Cannot dispute the authenticity of farewell notes

Cannot disclose the duress under which the notes were written

It is sad the dead cannot talk.

 

There will be no closure in this death

No end to the mourning.

 

Each morning on the long queues of fuel

We will mourn

Each time bogus salaries are splashed on spouses for charity work

We will mourn

Each time we find no medicine in hospitals

We will mourn

Each time they threaten journalists with death

We will mourn

Each time they set ablaze the abode of an activist

We will mourn

Each time they raze the markets

We will mourn

Each time appointments are made from one ethnic group only

We will mourn.

 

Go well dear friend

We will ignore the farewell notes

They have failed to kill your spirit

These idiots.

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