oday as I write this the voice of Mahatma Gandhi is inside my head grooming me I think in ways that are imagined and unimagined. I want to be the change and transformation that I want to see in the world.

We must continue to talk about this topic. Exhaust this subject until kingdom come. All inconvenient truth. Hold its wreck and ugliness up to the light of goodwill and human nature.

There is only one choice. That we must follow our paternal roots. Our mysterious maternal routes. Fashion the perfect candidate for our next presidency out of clay and we must, we must forget about the monsters (see under rug swept).

What we all want now as a nation are credible people with the powers of sense and sensibility to rule and nurture the legacy of President Nelson Mandela. This is the time now for out potential to be great and become great in future seasons. In the time of this great, great country, the unforgettable President Thabo Mbeki, the dapper philosopher who coined the term "the African Renaissance" there is grace and mercy.

It is the prowess of the pen that will defeat all. This 'trigger' is wired into the methodology of our psychology. Some in today's society will always have their finger on the money. Always. Believe me. Then there will be those who will forget but not forgive in their hearts.

The youth and the followers of the Fees Must Fall Campaign have their hearts set on fulfilling their potential. Who are we, I say again this time vehemently, WHO ARE WE to stand in their way. To stand in the way of a quagmire of potentialities.

Where is South Africa today? Where will South Africans find themselves in the future? What will happen not only to "Future South African"

generations but "Future Africa", "Future Global" generations?

Order comes from order. Chaos comes from chaos. Reconciliation will come from reconciliation and the reoccupation of our thoughts.

Daily we are measured against the world. Our faith is tested when we are confronted by the scourge of apartheid (RACISM).

What is holding us back from the making sacred and universally great strides in (DARE I SAY IT, BANTU) education? Would you send you kid, your flesh and blood, to a school that has no sanitation, no running water, and no roof to shield him from the elements, no desk to place his textbooks on, to rest his pen (see again THE POWER OF THE PEN WILL DEFEAT ALL) who rise against it.

The youth are made of a brave substance. This was revealed in the media on campuses nationwide. They were a collective. They are a collective. They were a people. They are a people. They were a tribe.

They are a tribe. They are “my” tribe.

And so the second African Renaissance marks the second African revolution (yes, yes, yes, mark my words because these words are going down in history as I write this).

I am angry but I hope you will think and feel that I am choosing my words with care not to cause injury, hurt to anyone, damage or sabotage. I do not want to leave you devastated and to numb to think and feel anything but that I am taking up your personal space with dogma.

This is not only “my” South Africa. It belongs to all of us across the colour line. Black and white and whatever you want to feel free to call yourself because that is what race has come to these days. Making a cross. Ticking that box. Can’t you see? Can’t you see? “We” (“we” as in South Africans) have become products.

Our democracy, President Jacob Zuma, Julius Malema, Patricia de Lille, Dulcie September, Winnie Mandela are all interfaced with the hope we had in our first democratic election. Can you see that?

I don’t want to advocate that you accept my personal opinion as your own. You can make of it what you want. That is of course your prerogative. Perhaps I write like a journalist or speak like a political analyst. I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. Sometimes it just becomes too much for me. This succession debate.

Who is going to be the next president of our country? We can’t live with each other in this country it seems but we also can’t live without each other. This is a letter to the editor about so many things. Every single one of us has potential. The potential to become a criminal or the potential to become a teacher. Just take a moment to think about what I wrote just there. If you did, I think that we would all become new image people in split second.

I think that all of us still feel brave and shameful in so many different ways in South Africa especially about our democracy. We accept the west. Western ideology because it is so different from our adopted culture (BLACK, AFFIRMATIVE ACTION, those kind of LABELS) that we have to quietly “adjust our behaviour accordingly to”.

I want to speak so let me speak. I want to speak my mind. So let me speak my mind. Let me be frank with you.

Politics will speak to our hearts forever and forever and in the end what will that change? Where will the transformation come but from doing good for all and living a kind life with our potential.

Remembering that order comes out of order and chaos from chaos as the political analyst, Prince Mashele, said on the 15th of January 2017 on Interface on SABC 3, one Sunday evening in South Africa.

We should all become good listeners to our domestic housekeepers (“kitchen girls”) and landscape architects (“garden boys”). We still think of people in “that” way. It’s been twenty years people. COME ON!

Abigail George

Abigail George is a feminist, poet and short story writer. She is the recipient of two South African National Arts Council Writing Grants, one from the Centre for the Book and the Eastern Cape Provincial Arts and Culture Council. She was born and raised in the coastal city of Port Elizabeth, the Eastern Cape of South Africa, educated there and in Swaziland and Johannesburg. She has written a novella, books of poetry, and collections of short stories. She is busy with her brother putting the final additions to a biography on her father’s life. Her work has recently been anthologised in the Sol Plaatje EU Poetry Anthology IV. Her work was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She briefly studied film.