War here isn’t tanks rolling through Sandton. It’s my cousin getting stabbed at a taxi rank over R80. It’s load-shedding that kills oxygen machines while politicians debate who owns the grid. It’s the slow war of watching your mother age faster than her years, cleaning houses that will never be hers. I see war in the way we normalise funerals on Sundays, how amapiano beats pause for gunshots in Zone 6. The front line is the queue at the municipal office, asking for water that never comes. We’re not invaded — we’re eroded.
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