As we listened to Enicca
outside her tiny shack
on the stony hillside above Burgersfort
her rapist walked behind us,
under the low thorn-tender trees.
I felt no chill,
noted nothing strange
in the honeyed afternoon.
It’s happened many times before,
this passing by of men who
rip and tear women;
this once, I knew.
Rapists are, after all,
almost ordinary
boyfriends, husbands, fathers,
brothers, friends,
sometimes strangers.
Odds aren’t bad they’re you.
For a moment,
Enicca’s composure wavered –
just a moment –
then she spoke again,
strong and true.


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