In a bid for change, we have to take off our coats, be prepared

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, thick with mist and the faint echo of sirens. Through the cracked window of an old factory café, a single lamp flickered, spilling its light across dusty tables and half-empty cups. The rain beat steadily against the metal roof, like a quiet drum of persistence. Jack sat in the corner, his coat still damp, cigarette smoke curling from his fingers. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair clinging to her cheeks, her eyes lit by a kind of fierce calm.

Host: Between them lay a newspaper, its headline screaming about another protest, another arrest, another voice silenced. And on the table, written in Jack’s sharp hand, was a quote that had started their argument.

Jeeny: “In a bid for change,” she read softly, “we have to take off our coats, be prepared to lose our comfort and security, our jobs and positions of prestige, and our families... A struggle without casualties is no struggle.” She looked up, her eyes gleaming. “Steven Biko said that. And he was right, Jack. Change demands sacrifice.”

Jack: (exhaling smoke slowly) “Biko died for that belief, Jeeny. And that’s exactly the problem. Every idealist thinks sacrifice is the price of progress until it’s their blood on the ground.”

Host: His voice was low, edged with weariness, but behind it was something deeper — a quiet fear that had hardened into skepticism over the years.

Jeeny: “You think comfort saves us? That staying safe makes the world better?”

Jack: “I think living does. I’ve seen too many people throw away their lives for a dream that never arrived. Revolution burns bright, sure — but it leaves ash, not justice.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, hammering against the windows, as if echoing the tension between their words.

Jeeny: “And yet, without those who stood up — without Biko, without Mandela, without every person who refused to bow — you and I wouldn’t even be sitting here, free to argue in this café.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “Free? You call this free? We’ve just built new walls, Jeeny. Softer ones. Economic ones. Social ones. They don’t whip you in the street anymore — they just make sure you can’t afford to stand up. And you want people to throw away what little they have left for another noble failure?”

Host: Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly as she lifted her cup. The steam from the coffee rose between them like a thin veil — fragile, transient.

Jeeny: “You call it a failure because you measure change in numbers and salaries. But some changes are measured in the human spirit. When one person stands, even if they fall, it shows the rest of us what courage looks like.”

Jack: “Courage doesn’t feed your family. It doesn’t rebuild what’s burned down. I’ve seen men lose everything chasing an idea — and their kids grow up thinking the world’s nothing but loss.”

Host: Jack’s voice cracked slightly, the weight of some old memory pressing through. Jeeny noticed — and softened, but only for a moment.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather they kneel? Rather they survive quietly, letting injustice grow stronger?”

Jack: “I’d rather they live long enough to make a difference in smaller, real ways. Change isn’t a martyr’s stage, Jeeny. It’s a negotiation.”

Host: The lamp flickered again, briefly plunging them into shadow. The sound of distant thunder rolled across the city like a warning.

Jeeny: “You think justice can be negotiated with power? That the oppressed can politely ask for their chains to be loosened? No, Jack. The system doesn’t give up control because you write a good proposal. It gives up when it fears losing everything.”

Jack: (smirking bitterly) “You sound like every revolutionary pamphlet I’ve ever read.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like every tired pragmatist who’s forgotten what fire feels like.”

Host: The air between them crackled. The rain pounded harder, like a chorus of invisible hearts beating with rage.

Jack: “Fire destroys, Jeeny. It doesn’t build. You think of Biko and Mandela, but how many others died nameless, their struggles swallowed by time? Their children grew up orphans. Their stories lost. Was it worth it?”

Jeeny: (voice rising) “Yes! Because even in their deaths, they planted seeds. Maybe you don’t see it, but those seeds grow in every act of defiance, every whisper of truth. Every time someone says, ‘No more.’”

Host: Her eyes glistened, reflecting the trembling light. The room seemed smaller now, the walls closer, as if listening.

Jack: “You romanticize suffering. You call it noble. But pain doesn’t always purify — sometimes it just breaks people.”

Jeeny: “And comfort doesn’t always heal — sometimes it corrupts.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick. Outside, the rain began to slow, turning into a soft drizzle, like the city itself was catching its breath.

Jack: “You really believe struggle needs casualties?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “I believe truth demands them. Every real transformation leaves something behind — comfort, security, ego, illusion. That’s what Biko meant. To shed those things is to bleed, yes, but it’s the only way to be reborn.”

Jack: “You make it sound like salvation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s just the only honest way to live.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands, the cigarette burning low between his fingers. He remembered a friend, a journalist, who once believed the same — until a bullet found him in a foreign street. The memory clawed at him.

Jack: “You know what happens to people who live that way? They die young, Jeeny. And the world moves on. A headline. A statue. Then silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But silence after truth is louder than noise before it. That’s why people still whisper Biko’s name, even decades later.”

Host: Her voice softened. For the first time, Jack didn’t respond immediately. The lamp hummed faintly, casting a golden halo around their faces.

Jeeny: “You talk about the ashes, Jack. But ashes mean there was fire — and fire means something once lived, once burned bright enough to change the dark.”

Jack: “And yet here we are — still in the dark.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But look around. The fact that we can even speak these words... it means someone once set a fire large enough to light our way here.”

Host: A faint smile ghosted across Jack’s face, not of agreement, but of weary acknowledgment. The storm outside had quieted, leaving only the faint sound of dripping water and the low hum of the city recovering its rhythm.

Jack: “So what do you want, Jeeny? Another revolution? Another war?”

Jeeny: “No. I want honesty. I want people to stop pretending that comfort and morality can coexist when the world is burning. Change isn’t polite, Jack. It never was.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “And if the price is everything?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we’ll know what it truly cost us.”

Host: The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Jack leaned back, letting the chair creak under his weight. For a moment, they both watched the rain slide down the window, tracing fragile, trembling paths like history itself — always falling, always moving forward.

Jack: “You’re right about one thing, Jeeny. Every comfort is borrowed. Maybe I just fear the bill that comes due.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And maybe fear is just the last coat we need to take off.”

Host: The lamp dimmed once more, the light now soft, almost tender. Outside, the clouds began to part, revealing a thin line of moonlight breaking through the mist. It fell across the table, touching both their faces.

Host: Jack reached for his coat, but paused — his hand resting on the fabric, as if feeling the weight of the metaphor. Jeeny watched, saying nothing. The moment stretched — fragile, uncertain, human.

Host: And in that quiet, between the fading rain and the returning light, two souls sat together — stripped of pretense, aware of the cost, and perhaps, ready to begin again.