I stand tall
against the madness of hatred,
against hands that close hospital doors
on a human being
because his accent arrived before him.
They call it protection.
I call it fear wearing a flag.
Some believe this land will stand forever
without thought,
without strategy,
without unity.
They mistake soil for wisdom,
birthplace for intelligence.
Foreigners arrive with nothing
but carry plans in their minds.
They learn the streets,
the systems,
the silence.
They survive.
And the angry ones ask,
“Why them?”
instead of asking,
“What do they know?”
Pain is calling a land yours
while starving on it.
Pain is having freedom
with no idea how to use it.
Here, the word foreigner
has only one color.
Black.
Yet the land hosts the world
quietly, comfortably—
no questions asked.
Zimbabweans did not bring collapse.
They escaped it.
They are not enemies.
They are mirrors.
Their blood now stains our name.
Africa watches.
Artists struggle to tour.
Writers hesitate to speak.
Business doors close.
We inherit shame
we did not build alone.
Leadership without wisdom
turns thinking into violence.
When ideas fail,
people choose death
as a shortcut to power.
But hear this truth:
No one fears death more
than the one who kills.
War does not announce itself.
It remembers.
The same hands that block hospitals
will beg for shelter tomorrow.
The same mouths that shout “Go back”
will cross borders
with broken pride.
Black is not a curse.
Black is sun-born.
Divine.
Ancient.
Yet we were taught to fear ourselves.
To bleach,
to straighten,
to cover what the sun once blessed.
We eat poison
and blame the sun.
We forget who we are
and serve those who remember.
Africa is rich,
but her children are confused.
Hating each other
is the devil’s greatest success.
There are no borders in humanity.
Only choices.
And history
is writing our names
right now.
— THEMBA T TWALA III
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