How tragic our country is! The Cradle of Hope NPC South Africa

“I Am Tired, Mr. President”: A Final Cry from a Forgotten Black Citizen

Mr. Cyril Ramaphosa,

I am writing this not as a politician, not as a scholar, not even as a writer, but as a human being, a black South African, born into a promise that was never kept.

I remember the voices. The songs. The fists in the air. I was there when the struggle became a victory, or so we were told. I saw the flags rise, the votes cast, the headlines scream Freedom! And like so many others, I believed you. I believed the ANC. I believed that my life would change.

But it hasn’t. It got worse.

You speak of the Freedom Charter, of 70 years of vision. But what good is a vision when the people it was meant for can’t see past the trash heap outside their shack? You speak of Through the Eye of the Needle — but the ANC is no longer going through that needle. It’s stitching closed the mouths of the poor while sewing golden suits for the elite.

Let me tell you what my life looks like, Mr. President.

I live in a tin shack in a forgotten township where the winter cold cuts through the metal like a blade. There is no insulation. No warmth. We burn paraffin to keep warm, choking on the smoke that hangs heavy like hopelessness. The stench of sewage fills the air — open drains, blocked toilets, rats, disease. Every day I see children playing next to rubbish. We’ve learned to live among filth because no one comes. No one cares.

Our streets are full of potholes and broken dreams. The taxis speed recklessly; the ambulances arrive late — if they arrive at all. The clinics are overwhelmed, understaffed, and under-equipped. People die in waiting rooms while politicians cut ribbons at new hospitals that never open.

Our schools are overcrowded and falling apart. Children sit on the floor. Some walk to school barefoot. Many can’t read a full sentence by the time they leave. And then you blame apartheid, blame white people, blame the economy, but you never blame yourselves.

I am tired of blame. I am tired of excuses. I am tired of speeches.

You say it is an “immeasurable honour” to lead the ANC. But the ANC has become a disgrace. It is not a movement anymore; it is a feeding trough. A self-serving machine that preys on the poor and lives off our suffering. You get paid to lie to us while we bleed in silence.

Mr. Ramaphosa, you fly in jets, surrounded by bodyguards, staying in luxury. You ride in blue-light convoys through cities you’ve never had to walk through. You talk about honour, but you have forgotten what honour looks like. Honour is not reading from a podium in a designer suit. Honour is being willing to suffer with your people. And you don’t.

Our grandmothers wait in the sun for their SASSA money, sometimes for days. Our mothers sell fat cakes just to buy bread. Our brothers turn to crime because hope is gone. Our sisters raise children alone while you talk about economic transformation that we cannot eat. Dignity means nothing when you’re hungry.

And yes, I have thought it, sometimes I wish I was white and lived in Orania. Not because I want to be something else, but because they seem to live in a different South Africa. A country where the lights stay on. Where the water flows. Where their government doesn't abandon them and then tell them it’s for their own good.

You made us believe in freedom, but this is not freedom. This is survival.

I don’t want land, Mr. President. I don’t want to take anything from anyone else. I don’t want handouts or broken promises. I want a job. I want a chance. I want to build something with my own hands and say, I did this. I want to be proud, but your leadership has stolen that from me.

You talk of renewal. But what can you renew when you never built anything in the first place? The ANC is a corpse being dragged across the stage, dressed in struggle songs and false glory. Its heartbeat is corruption. Its language is lies.

You blame. We suffer.

You eat. We starve.

You speak. We cry.

You live. We try not to die.

And now, as I write this, my neighbour’s child coughs in the cold. My cousin has just lost her job because her employer emigrated. Another door has closed. Another life broken.

You don’t need to answer this letter, Mr. President. You already have. Every pothole, every power cut, every hungry belly, that’s your answer. Every time you quote the Freedom Charter while living in luxury, you insult us. Every time you talk about “honour” in leadership while protecting criminals, you wound us.

I’m not asking anymore. I’m not waiting anymore. I’m simply telling you this:

You have failed us. And we are done believing you.

We are tired. We are cold. We are angry. But most of all, we are disappointed! Because we believed you.

Disclaimer:

This letter is not written in hatred but in heartbreak.

It is not a political campaign.

It is the voice of a citizen who has nothing left but the truth.

It is not aimed at personal insult, but at public responsibility.

Mr. Ramaphosa, you promised us freedom.

When you took oath of office, you made a promise and said "Thuma Mina".

We sent you, only for you to collect Buffalos.

We are still waiting.

Author Anonymous.