Mine Correspondence

Etched in Coal-Dust, Delivered by a Whispering Wind

To: The Baas of the Reef, Keeper of Chains and Chutes,

I write from the marrow of this earth, where shadows stitch my breath to stone and the walls hum with the dead’s soft laughter. My fingers, blackened claws, claw at seams that weep gold for your purse, 

yet my wage is a ghost’s whisper, thin as the air I choke on.

The shaft is a throat, swallowing us whole, 

its timbers groan like hanged men, splintered ribs cradling our descent. Yesterday, a rock fell, kissed my mate’s skull to silence; his blood pooled a mirror, showed me my own eyes staring back. You pay us coins, not enough to bury him proper, 

my ribs cage a hunger that gnaws its own bars.

The air here is a thief, pilfering years, 

each cough spits a shard of my lung, a red jewel you’ll never weigh. The machines growl psalms of rust, their jaws unhinged; one bit my shadow clean off, left it writhing in the slag. I demand a reckoning, 

silver to match the weight of my dust, or I’ll rise a spectre to your stoep.

The foremen, your indunas, those vultures in boots, pick our bones clean with stares, 

last shift, one grinned as the cage shuddered, dropped us ten feet into darkness’ maw. Their whips carve hymns on my back, but I’ll sing no more, 

I’ll carve their names in the reef, a curse to outlast your greed.

Answer me, or this pit will birth my wraith, 

I’ll climb the winder cables, hands dripping tar, and sit at your desk, my gaze a pickaxe through your sleep. The veld above will hear the earth moan my name, and your tea will taste of my ash. 

Write back, or I’ll haunt you with the silence of a thousand buried men.

Yours in shadow and spite,

A Voice from the Vein

Enclosure: A splinter from the deep, still warm.

Inked on Ledger Paper, Sealed with a Sigh

To: Toiler of the Deep, Shadow-Crowned and Spiteful,

Your words rise from the reef like smoke from a doused fire, curling through my window to sting my eyes, 

I read them on the stoep, dawn bleeding over the veld, and felt the weight of your dust in my chest. I am no baas of whips, no glutton gnawing on your bones; I built this mine to feed men, not to bury them.

You speak of shafts swallowing, of blood mirrors and splintered ribs, 

I see it too, in dreams where the earth groans my name, where your mate’s skull cracks again under a rock I didn’t throw. My hands tremble when I sign your cheques, thin as they are, 

they’re coins I clawed from a world that chews softer men to pulp. I gave you work when the fields spat you out; it’s a cruel gift, but it’s mine to give.

The air thieves your years, you say, and I taste its grit in my tea, 

each cough you spit haunts the ledgers I tally, red jewels I can’t repay. But silver to match your dust? The pits won’t bleed it, not for me or you; they trickle just enough to keep the winders grinding, the lamps lit. 

I’d choke on my own shadow before I let them douse.

The foremen, those indunas, the vultures you curse, 

I’ve seen their grins, sharp as picks, and I’ve roared them down when the cage shuddered. They’re dogs I leash, not devils I crown, 

yet the pit demands its rhythm, and I won’t break it for your throne of coal. 

My desk stays mine; no wraith will sip my tea.

I feel your ash, your thousand buried silences, 

I carry them in my sleep, a weight no profit lifts. But I’ll not carve my ruin to ease yours; the world’s a machine, and I’m its weary crank. Stay in the vein, or climb out, 

I’ll mourn you either way, but the silver stays where it lies.

Yours in regret and refusal,

The Keeper of the Winders

Postscript: Your helmet’s replaced, wear it, for my sake.