LETTER TO A BROTHER TURNED ENEMY

Dear Zulu,

I am writing you through a network owned by one of your sons, Ferdi Moolman. Should you see a letter in a white envelope tied with a yellow ribbon, know that it is mine, open it not with insane mind, and take a moment pause to read through.

Even a day old baby has, if not seen, heard the cruel massacre of my brothers in your land. I used to think we were brothers, not until this time.

I grew up seeing you as my brother when I was told that during the Apartheid era in your land, my parents were one of the foremost supporters of anti-apartheid movement, that we issued more than 300 passports to you and your brothers seeking to travel abroad. Abroad which ended up being in my land.

I'm beginning to owe Ashanti an apology for sending him packing when he came for refuge in my land, for producing a bag - Ghana must Go - which till this present generation, is sung by every child as a remembrance of how we wanted them expelled from our land. But not even a day have they thought of "A pay back". Then imagine yourself who share no boundary with me like the Black Stars. Imagine yourself whom, the year you had your first indigenous president, we were at our tenth, General Sani Abacha.

Chinua Achebe said that he who does not know from where the rain started beating him will not know where it stopped beating him. Zulu, before you continue killing, can we go back and know from where the rain started beating us. The goat thought it was dirtying its owner's wall till it realized its coat was peeling.

Have you forgot the hit song the famous Nigerian musician, Sonny Okosun, wrote: "Fire in Soweto" in 1977 to commemorate the 1976 Soweto uprising against apartheid in your land. You used every means to cry for help from neighboring countries during the apartheid. You had immediate neighbour who you thought their help weren't enough, and as such raised the volume of your cry and clarion call for redemption, salvation and external interference in the ugly and heinous apartheid threat in your land. You achieved this through notable poets like Mazisi Kunene, Dennis Brutus, Oswald Mtshali and the last Jah Reggae prophet, Lucky Dube. We still study their poems in our institutions, we are still playing those reggae musics in our records. We heard your cry and came to help, sending 300 passports to your brothers seeking to travel abroad.

Following the end of Apartheid in 1994, your businesses sought for professionals to immigrate and a large number of my brothers did so. Mandela your father was happy that instead of the exploitative whites, his Black Brothers took the lead of investors. And today, that economy of yours has grown and you have decided to call the forest that sheltered you a jungle. "He who finished mowing his hairs in a barbers shop and broke the razor has forgot that those hairs will still grow back".

Zulu, do not forget that a razor may be sharper than an axe, but it cannot cut wood. You are enjoying the killing of your fellow black over something you have failed to bring to a table of discourse.

Zulu, I had thought that your renaissance will bring about an uprising against the whites that are dominating 30% of your home, the same white that made you call for help like a child during the apartheid. But instead, you chose to show your ingratitude towards a people that you are indebted to.

Zulu! Zulu! Zulu!

We never fought a war and lost. Do not make us count another victory.

I'm Sízà Àmàh a son of the soil.

Below is the postal code for this letter
+2348109710927

we never fought a war and lost