When Sebokeng Speaks

It’s for the ones who still see her as more than dust and damage.

When she speaks

Sebokeng is like a single mother, bones tired and spirit worn. She walks like one who has weathered too many storms without an umbrella, but still makes it home in time to cook, scold and hug, though not always in that order. She gave up her dreams long ago, not because they were unworthy, but because the world made it impossible to carry them while holding her children’s hands.

Her name isn’t Sebokeng, not really, but some call her: the hood, the township, kasi, ghetto, the streets. The soul of the place. She is every crack in the pavement, every shout between wall, every silence when laodsheeding hits, and joyful songs when it comes back.

And she speaks.

When it says “And she speaks,” it’s more than a poetic gesture, it’s a revelation. It marks the moment Sebokeng ceases to be just a place or a backdrop. She becomes alive. A mother. A presence. And when she speaks, 

She says:

“Don’t judge me by my broken fences, look at the children I’ve raised within them.”

“I’ve been wounded by systems, yet I still hum lullabies weaved from struggle.”

“I’m not beautiful by the standards of those who’ve never walked barefoot on the dusty streets.”“I may not dream, but I’ve taught many to survive long enough to dream for themselves.”“My love isn’t soft, but it’s real.”“You see crime and grime, I see the sacred art of surviving.”“If you knew the hands that tried to strangle me, you’d understand why mine hold on so tight.”“I’m a mother who never got to be a daughter.”

“I carry a thousand stories in every asbestos roofs, every school-bound child, every grandmother selling magwenya to feed generaations.”

When Sebokeng speaks, she speaks through every mother with calloused hands, every child with dusty shoes and dreams too big for their classrooms, every hustler with more hustle than hope. She isn’t asking to be loved, only to be seen.And when she speaks, it isn’t a whisper. It’s not romantic. It’s not decoration. It’s a cry and a confrontation.

Sebokeng doesn’t tell stories, she bleeds them, and she doesnt narrate, she erupts, and every word is a rupture not a recital, and she speaks with a wound, with a warning, and like a mother who birthed you and beat you, kissed your bruises and told you not to cry. She doesn’t wait for permission to speak. She speaks because silence has betrayed her too many times.

She is not a location. She is a paradox. A ghetto and a goddess. A slum and a sanctuary. A curse and a blessing.

When she speaks, she doesn’t want to be romanticized. She isn’t Soweto’s polished cousin or Jozi’s bohemian niece. She is what happens when a home is built from rejection, when the government forgets you but the street remembers your name.

She says:

"You love my sound, my slang, my rhythm, but not my people.""You come to 'discover culture' while I bury my sons.""You call me dangerous, but you’re the one who abused me.""You want my stories, my texture, my edge, but not my truth.""You’ll quote my struggle in your essays, but never sleep on my mattress.""You say I’m violent, but I learned that from your ways."

She speaks in contradictions because that’s how she was raised.A school without books, full of children with wisdom.A street steeped in poverty, but rich in hope.A zozo where gospel and beer cohabit.A kitchen with no meat, yet always something to eat.

She raised police and thieves in the same yard. Preachers and drug dealers, poets and killers, sometimes all in one body, and she loves them all unconditionally.

She is intimate because she knows your secrets. She saw your mother cry behind the curtain. She remembers who knocked at your door after midnight. She hasn’t forgotten who never returned from Johannesburg.

She is controversial because she refuses pity. She dares to take up space, dirty, loud, unashamed. Too Black. Too bold. Too much.

She is both you shame and your pride. Your past and your proof. The reason you left, and the reason you’ll always come back.

When Sebokeng speaks, she doesn’t seek your understanding. She demands you recognition. She demands that you admit you were forged in her fire, and that everything you are, your hustle, you sharp tongue, your hunger is because she taught you how to survive with nothing but your bare hands.

So when she speaks, you must listen.Even when it hurts.