Zvikufaya the new song for our different death

We are the walking dead. The old and unborn. 

We are walking into our self dug graves. Singing

zvikufaya which has become the new song of our different death.

The leaders admitted suffering 98% war injuries. We paid them for this. Now they have self inflicted on themselves and us more 1000 000% injuries. Still we pay them for this. All the while singing our new song of a new death, zvikufaya.

We pay them for digging our graves. For leading us into them smiling and singing with joy. We fall in the graves in numbers and our eyes open still singing zvikufaya.

For the death in our water, on our roads, in our homes, and for the death everywhere – the deathly silence of the once thriving factory, the empty medicine chests in the hospitals, for the rot at the school and this rot in our souls – we still pay them handsomely.

They steal from us on the way to the cemetery. And for that too we pay them. They lie to us about our death. Still we have to pay them. For making our taps dry, and for taking away the power – we pay them. And when we get a few seconds, we shout zvikufaya, our new song for a different death.

In the silence of the night, in the darkness of our shame – our bloodied fingers reach for that last soiled dollar, that rusted coin to pay while singing zvikufaya.

The youthful generation so overzealous and energetic are the gravediggers. The tax collectors. The mouths used to spread the lies. The weapons wielded to decimate and desecrate. They too claim entitlement. We pay them still singing zvikufaya in mixed jubilation. Crying as we smile. Smiling as we cry. Blood and tears. Saliva and mucus. Sweat and urine. Yes, zvikufaya.

It's the last day of our lives. To show we are still alive, to cast away the death throes, we stagger to boast to others about what we have. A bottle of whisky. A new jacket. A second hand car. Anything to stay death. We want to show that we are not family of the 98% war injured. But all we have is what we are showing off and all the energy goes into the dirge – zvikufaya.

For those who sneaked into foreign lands on lies of being persecuted, or fake student visas or worse are living like shadows, the reality is that back then these were just lies told by our tongues to buy a new path to a different cemetery where we are dying a different death and singing a new dirge.

But time has caught up with us. We can sing zvikufaya to prove we are not part of the walking dead. That we now belong to a different show. In actual fact, we are dying a different death by a different means. We carry the curse of the 98% war injured. We are the curse. 

We pretend to be full on the outside when inside we are hollow. We sing zvikufaya loudly to drown the sickening echoes from our mutilated soul. We cover ourselves with cosmetics to bury the ugliness in our eyes. Yet even as we sing zvikufaya so loudly, the dark colours show clearly. There is no escape because even when we are finally dragged to the waiting grave, our friends beg for help.

Zvikufaya.