In my quest to comprehend how this text should potentially be framed as social commentary on the current status quo of the continent, the fact of Othello being a black man accused of murdering his white wife would have provoked discourse on South Africa's underlying racial prejudices and the general air of distrust that lurks between us as a residue of our unresolved past.

Squint your eyelids even tighter and you’re bound to hear the last remaining echo of the neighbourhood gossip: whose son, just yesterday a tottering tot, has gone rouge and robbed the Somali’s spaza shop, which spinster is shacking up with whose philandering husband, whose daughter was spotted disembarking a Nigerian mogul’s car and who owes the mashonisa for the weave his girlfriend is busy posting selfies in, while their two children go hungry in some drought-ridden village the couple only visit on Christmas!

He is not convinced you're hurt; you're not bleeding He forgets you bleed monthly when you're not hurting He doesn't understand your soul speaks the moon's language Yet he expertly gathers rain clouds in your heart But his thirst to leave your earth dry and cracked