mxolisi dolla sapeta
violent seed
i am from a violent seed ─ a legacy of vulgarity
a suitcase packed with stones and bullets
across the railway line things may seem different
but on tv and in the neighbourhood temper is boiling
every night i dream of a violent childhood
an unfair love from both my parents
now deceased ─ left no money of course
my father casts a fearsome shadow behind all my mirages
his tongue still blocks my ears with a sharp trill
my mother’s voice was soothing though she never smiled
I never mock the drunken anger in my neighbourhood
it’s the wine we drank on fridays that made us happy
the girls made us happy too
they also gave us children we never wanted or trusted
love was a mysterious nagging word we did not know
and i never managed to say
this is my house!
the heroic words my father used when he was drunk
there was always something suspicious about happy people
everybody’s weapon was a fierce temper
on new year’s day in the beachfront
people look poor but fat
and the colour of the grass is a bleached fawn
the whites are stubbornly holding onto their pompous standards
holding hands together ─ ice cream cones with hopeless hands
they are becoming redder than a yellow-white
their smiles have missing teeth and truths
their eyes are a glassy cold blue
like the unforgiving ocean shores
i could not even find a tiniest lime light from my girlfriend
she had long disappeared behind the screens of soap operas
and the makeshift beauty salon containers jammed in street corners
to ease the constant pain of being a black woman
in an unimportant township somewhere in africa
her only weapon was a borrowed beauty,
a sexy body, and the endless fashion trends from china