They said history was written in stone, names carved where the sun favours few, but I have seen the stories in the dust, etched by those who walked before. They walled the Kruger with maps and rules, said the land was not ours to claim, but the trees know the hands that touched them, the rivers hum with forgotten names. They snapped our faces into albums, filed our lives between their lies, turned fathers into eyes and ears, turned silence into a weapon. Chorus: We walk still— through dust, through shadow, through silence. We walk still— past gates that tried to close behind us. We walk still— because the roots remember, because the past is ours to tell. They said we were visitors to our own land, but the soil does not forget our steps. The roads they laid to keep us out became the roads we took back home. Nothing stays hidden forever. Not the footprints beneath the fences, not the voices buried in the wind, not the scars of a country learning to see. Chorus: We walk still— through dust, through shadow, through silence. We walk still— past gates that tried to close behind us. We walk still— because the roots remember, because the past is ours to tell.
