Rabelani Tshidino
The Union Organizer
I do not knock—I march.
Not with weapons, but with worn-out boots
and the rage of those who’ve waited too long for justice.
I’ve seen miners cough blood into silence,
nurses cradle death on double shifts,
clerks weep behind their counters
because school fees don’t wait for wage negotiations.
They call me trouble.
I carry that word like a badge,
because I’ve made the arrogant sweat
at the sound of a worker's united voice.
I’ve spoken in tongues—Zulu, Xhosa, Sotho, Tsonga—
but the language of hunger needs no translation.
I’ve slept in union offices, on floors with flyers for pillows,
because a strike doesn’t pause for comfort.
There are days I am so tired
even my dreams need rest.
But I go on.
Because someone must hold the line.
Because someone must say no more.
I do this for my father,
whose spine bowed in a factory so mine could rise.
I do this for the cashier who smiled through tears,
for the cleaner who scrubs Parliament’s floors
yet eats her lunch outside like she doesn’t belong.
I am not just a union organizer.
I am the echo of a struggle still unfolding.
And I am not afraid.