We saw butcheries humming with life, bakeries warm with rising dough.
We imagined oil drums filled with promise,Trucks roaring toward prosperity across the African continent,A bank of hope,And a bus—painted with our flag—carrying our dreams into dawn.
We believed in building,In unity,In sisterhood stronger than blood.
But Sithule Tshuma—With Karen Kumalo, Bridget Dube, Nompilo Moyo,And Zibusiso Charles Ncube cloaked in shadows—Did not build.
They hollowed our dreams with greed.
They danced in the dust of our devastation.
The farms vanished before harvest.
The market’s doors rusted shut before they ever opened.
The butcheries never smelled of meat.
The bakeries were tombs.
The oil dried to silence.
The trucks were never driven.
And the bus became a shrine to deceit.
We, more than 500 women,Now carry only grief,And receipts that prove nothing but betrayal.
They wear our stolen sacrifices—Designer threads stitched from our tears,Holiday selfies framed by the graves of our trust.
And Sithule,Cruel and brazen,Mocks our brokenness in Facebook captions,Turns our pain into punchlines,As though our lives were just her stepping stones.
But we mourn in silence no longer. 🔗 Read Full Article
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