I would describe and I have described myself to people who ask as

Host: The sunset bled into the horizon, smearing the sky with deep crimson and amber hues. The city’s heartbeat slowed as the last commuters drifted into the underground, their footsteps echoing like forgotten prayers. Inside a dim café, the air was heavy with smoke and the scent of burnt coffee. A radio hummed softly — a distant voice speaking about revolutions, freedom, and the cost of truth.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the crowd outside, like a soldier studying a battlefield he no longer wanted to fight. Across from him, Jeeny held a cup between her hands, her fingers trembling slightly, her eyes alive with something that could only be called belief.

Jeeny: “He once said, ‘I would describe and I have described myself to people who ask as a freedom fighter.’ Steven Biko. Do you know what that means, Jack?”

Jack: smirking slightly “A freedom fighter, huh? Sounds noble enough… until you look closer. One man’s freedom fighter is another man’s terrorist. History loves to twist words.”

Host: The light flickered, throwing shadows across Jack’s face, making his eyes colder, sharper. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice low, but her words carried fire.

Jeeny: “It’s not about what history says — it’s about what truth demands. Biko didn’t pick up a gun. He picked up dignity. He fought with words, with courage, with spirit. He died because he refused to bow.”

Jack: “And what did it change, Jeeny? He died in a cell, beaten and broken. The system carried on for years. Sometimes, sacrifice just feeds the machine.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Sometimes it awakens the machine. You think those who came after him — Mandela, Tutu, the millions who walked in the streets — would’ve stood the same way if Biko hadn’t spoken first?”

Host: A silence lingered between them, like the pause before a storm. The rain began to fall — slow, deliberate drops tapping against the glass, like a distant drumbeat.

Jack: “You talk about him like he was a saint. But even saints get people killed. When people start calling themselves ‘freedom fighters,’ they usually leave a trail of bodies behind them.”

Jeeny: “That’s the language of the powerful, Jack. They call resistance ‘violence’ because they own the definition. Tell me — when a government chains your people, silences your voice, and steals your land, what do you call it when someone stands up?”

Jack: “I call it idealism. Dangerous idealism. The world runs on systems, not feelings. You can’t break an empire with a slogan.”

Jeeny: “But you can start with one. Every revolution, every change — it begins with words. With a refusal. With a man or woman saying, ‘No more.’ That’s what Biko did. He said, ‘The most potent weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.’ He fought to free the mind, not the country.”

Host: The rain intensified, tracing silver veins down the window, while the streetlights outside blurred into ghostly halos. Jeeny’s voice trembled with conviction, and Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping against his glass.

Jack: “Free the mind? That’s poetic, sure. But try telling that to a man starving in the township. Try telling that to a woman who’s lost her child to police bullets. You think philosophy feeds the hungry?”

Jeeny: “It feeds the spirit, Jack. And that’s where all change begins. The body follows the mind. A man who believes he’s free can’t be truly enslaved. That’s what terrified them — not his body, but his ideas.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered, betraying a momentary conflict. He looked away, out into the night, where a group of protesters marched past, their voices rising in a distant chant.

Jack: “You think I don’t understand that? I’ve seen what blind systems do. I’ve seen people die for ideas they didn’t even believe in. But the thing about ‘freedom fighters’ — they always believe their cause is worth every death. Until it’s their turn to count the bodies.”

Jeeny: “And yet you live because someone believed before you. Every right you take for granted — speech, vote, love — someone fought for it. Someone was called a criminal or a radical for it.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes shone under the dim light, her voice trembling, her hands clenched around the cup like a shield. Jack’s shoulders slumped, but his voice remained cold.

Jack: “Maybe. But you can’t fight for freedom without creating another kind of prison. Look at revolutions — France, Russia, even the so-called ‘liberations’ in Africa. The tyrant falls, and another takes his place. Is that freedom?”

Jeeny: “It’s human. Imperfect, bloody, but human. Freedom isn’t a destination — it’s a direction. Every generation has to walk it again.”

Host: The clock ticked behind them, a slow rhythm that matched the pulse of their words. The smoke hung between them like a veil, their faces half-lit, half-lost in shadow.

Jack: “You’re too romantic, Jeeny. You dress pain in poetry. You make martyrdom sound beautiful.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t beautiful. It’s necessary. Without those who choose to suffer, the rest of us would forget what justice even feels like.”

Jack: “You really believe one person can change the tide?”

Jeeny: “Not the tide, Jack — the current. The tide belongs to the sea, but the current shapes the shore. One person can do that.”

Host: The rain softened, becoming a quiet mist. Jack finally met her eyes, and something in his expression shifted — not agreement, but understanding.

Jack: “You think I’ve never wanted to fight for something? I used to. Once. But the world has a way of breaking those who try. It teaches you to survive, not to believe.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe surviving isn’t living, Jack. Maybe fighting — even losing — is the only way to feel alive.”

Host: The room grew still, save for the soft hum of the radio. Outside, the protesters’ voices had faded into the night, replaced by the murmur of rain.

Jack: “So you’d rather die for an idea?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather die for a truth than live for a lie.”

Host: Jack’s eyes glimmered — not with anger, but with sadness. He lifted his glass, the ice clinking softly against it, and stared into the amber liquid as if it held a reflection of another life, another self.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what makes people like Biko different. They don’t bend. The rest of us… we bend until we forget we were ever straight.”

Jeeny: “Then remember, Jack. Remember what it felt like before the world taught you to bow.”

Host: Her words hung in the air — heavy, luminous, undeniable. For a long moment, neither spoke. The light from the window fell across their faces, painting one in shadow, the other in fire.

Jack: “You know, maybe he was right. Maybe freedom isn’t about fighting others — it’s about fighting the fear inside yourself.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s where every revolution begins.”

Host: The rain stopped. A beam of light broke through the clouds, slicing through the window and catching the faint steam from their cups. For a second, the world seemed still, suspended in quiet truth.

Jack leaned back, his eyes weary but alive. Jeeny smiled faintly, as if she’d seen a door open somewhere deep inside him.

Host: The camera pulls back, through the glass, into the street, where puddles shimmer like mirrors of a freer world not yet born. The café’s neon sign flickers — a pulse, a heartbeat, a reminder that even in the darkest hours, freedom breathes through those who dare to speak its name.