Dystopic South Africa

Luke could barely breathe, clutching onto each and every breath as if it were his last. He knew he was going to die. He felt numb, even the wall that he used as a temporary form of refuge felt like it was but a figment of his imagination. He felt as though he may as well just stand out in the open, in the middle of the street, because he knew that hiding, at this point, was futile. The heavily armed men, embellished in gleaming, jet-black armour, were closing in and there was nothing he could do. Luke watched and waited as missiles and bullets darted past him, the seemingly useless wall proving to be surprisingly effective at it’s newly acquired protective role. His ears were blocked, which only amplified his quickening breathing. He clutched his chest to stop his was panting.

 

Luke asked himself whether hiding was worthwhile or not because once he somehow escaped, what then? How would he continue with his life knowing that he had nothing? Where would he go? His whole family fled the country before the government announced that white people were to leave the county within 72 hours or they would be killed without hesitation. What home would he return to? Those who were desperate to “decolonize” the country through the forced removal of white people, took everything that he owned; they raided his home and burnt it to the ground. Luke asked himself what he had to live for because even the hope that South Africa could be a society that, within its integration, would allow all to thrive as a land of opportunities was wrenched away from him.