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Your beauty dates back to ages, when your nature used to blossom. Heavens quenched your thirst, your beauty glows. Ingwavuma, you have encaged heroes and heroines of liberation, embraced many who have gained a name in your kindness. But now you are the forgotten.
Like a cursed ground, you remain desolate. I looked as you are crolling to your knees. Droughts striping you apart, dust in your roads; your people weary in despair. You are the forgotten.
Long ago, if not just yesterday, history recorded you as the home of the MK soldiers; the stewards of liberation. The leaders and presidents of this habitat have put their feet in your grounds by night and tasted your waters. You were the bridge of hope, connecting Swaziland and Mozambique where their camps were. But now you are the forgotten.
I was hoping that you will rise again. I was hoping that my youth will not pass before you are remembered. The misery of my childhood, I visualise being the suffering of my children. I was hoping that the Lusutfu and Jozini River will navigate and water you. If history records all these; I have a witness. YES! You are the forgotten.
