South Africa, You Love Rapists.

You adore them so much.

You sing songs of praise to them when innocent women are put into shame,

And slut shamed.

You elect them into power and let them to get away with corruption.

You give them power to your wealth and into your souls.

You wine and dine with them like guests of honour.

You parade them into your homes,

Yet you know they have broken into your homes and stole your daughters’ humanity.

You parade them into your homes yet you know their presence vexes your daughters and leaves them eternally broken.

You blame your daughters for their own victimization.

You crucify them for carrying “bastard” children yet you forget you opened that door.

Then you wonder why your daughters look you in the eye when they speak to you.

Then you wonder why their voices are not shaken why their fathers call them “sweetie”

and they reply with a quick and sharp “fuck off”.

But you continue to celebrate these rapists;

You shower them with gifts.

Yet you fail to shower your daughters with love.

You keep quiet when she tells you Sir X looks at her in a funny way.

And you assume she wants to be her honey,

Because you were your teacher’s honey.

You tell her it’s all in her head.

Like generations of men and women before you said to you.

That she is delusional.

You call her a slut when she tells you Uncle Y sneaks into her bed at night,

Pulling of her panties like a drunk and entitled man pulling his garage door at night.

You wonder why she’s scared.

You tell her she’s paranoid,

That it is the devil,

Yet it is you.

You kept quiet while she died inside and you thought she was just a silly child.


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