I write this with my own blood, though I know it will not be read.
I cannot say for sure how much time I have left, how long these doors will hold back the seething bubbling anger of the priests that clamor to extinguish the last flames of my consciousness.
Tambo looked at the dusty red soil that flowed between the government houses, and he thought about the colour red. He remembered the grand velvety richness of the cover of the little red book his father had proudly brought back with him from his training in Angola, and he remembered the sadly worn red in his mothers eyes when she explained that his father would never be coming home again.
I never knew him well; we had exchanged only the curtest of greetings. We were in the same place through circumstance. Not the cosmos-grand-design kind of circumstance, but rather that, which is dictated by the frustrated impotence of old men. Men who went home to wizened wives practicing repulsed celibacy. Refilling the wells of their silent resentment each evening, they irrigated their flowers of death, sending young men to kill and die.