The day that I was born is the day I died. You can call it a memoir, or can call it a suicide note. But, my date of birth is my date of death.
When I hear stories of my conception : mother went into labour for almost 24 hours. I was due at midday but came out at midnight, I was due on this date 22nd I came out the day after.
Beautiful stories of the beautiful moment- a love child is born. Lately, I've been contemplating my existence in this awful time, I mean they say the day of reckoning will be visible such as climate changes, people killing each other out of rage, the list goes on.
Human interaction or a lack thereof, where did we go wrong with that?! A simple 'Hello, how are you?' Has become a trigger of stiff-lips and angry soaked faces. The only time one seeks conversation is when they want something.
Unforgivable! But, this isn't the reason why I died. I've seen the youth whose fathers were just sperm donors in the conception, or a father's role is abusing women and drinking, hard.
The irony us when those fathers discipline the children they are in awe of their behaviour demonstrated into the public - the disrespect towards elders; especially, onto women. Oh, that isn't the cause of how I died.
To vaguely talk about the marriage between politics and crime, it's nice to hear deliberations from politicians. Yet, when it comes to implementation it is a mountain even if it's a 2 metre steep.
Corruption is a fat cat's playground, so to speak. Who am I to judge? A concerned citizen who pays tax like every other South African. Water and electricity increases, there's food and petrol price hikes, and an incline of unemployed graduates dependable on social grants.
