(Shaka 1828)
an ordinary village
my village
The old shepherd whistles and shouts
distinctly to the ears of his cattle and
with a quick lash of his whip
he brings them to rest
at the pubic banks
of the sweet water in the
slow-flowing Amanzi.
The day begins – Sanibonani!
Daddy-longlegged girls
with bright white smiles
and tightly braided hair
laugh and talk at the top
of their voices –
they have nothing to hide
and everything to seek.
The stiff-upperlipped English
play bowls – bright and shiny!
Hanging on to cucumber sandwich days
the colonials still have their own ways.
They hoist their club’s flag with each game,
at half-mast
when old Jack is knocked into the ditch.
The only things left of the Afrikaner
are signatures and old jerseys
of their rugby gods in the pub
and rusty road signs like
“versteekte uitgang” –
echoing a lost claim on
bends and kerbstones.
Indians mind their own businesses,
ladies serving silently in saris,
the way they do in the world, selling
Curry and Rice and New Delhi Delight
on Thursday evenings to the colonials,
who suddenly long for stronger and more
exotic tastes on the wide, white stoeps of ’Toti.
Beneath the big floodlights
a group of Zulu boys practise
football. In their hearts drum
Bafana dreams and in their ears atooo!
and in their eyes the promising shadows of
bare-legged, amazing girls waiting for
them on the banks of the Amanzi.
Ziyabonga! – the day ends.
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