Squatter

Squatter

Squatter

I worked in an asbestos mine
I’ve lost count of the years.
My lungs are full of what they tell me cannot be dislodged
I emptied the bank of the earth
To fill the commercial banks in foreign lands.
I moved on to the farms,
Hoping to clear my lungs of asbestos dust.
They sent me to the tobacco barns
To do work that makes me cough all night when I should rest.

Now that I can no longer work in the mines
Nor grade the lung-eating weed,
I thought I could take my rest
On the liberated ground of my country.
But they tell me I’m a squatter —
I must go back to where I came from originally.

I thought I was born in this country.
I thought my identity card tells it all
That I am not a squatter in this country.
Can someone tell me what headman will take me
After I have been away countless years?

My lungs are too old for the mines where I belong!
My back is too old for the farms.
I thought I’d paid enough taxes with my sweat.
I thought my son who died in the liberation war,
Died to liberate the land for me to live on!
But they keep on telling me to move on
Before they set fire to my few belongings.
Is this what the children died for?
Why doesn’t someone tell me?