I have to walk a far distance,
to reach a medi-clinic or proper shop,
to reach my school of choice,
if mama can afford high fees with her job.
They started up again, waving the rainbow flag,
telling me and mine we are already free,
after thirty years in this,
my neighbourhood’s dusty streets.
Sure, I could be free-er, they say,
with better leaders
—only ones that look like me need to be replaced.
But I ignore the naysayers,
I don’t judge the judgments,
I have bigger problems to face.
Freedom might come with a big store,
they say,
more schools, better teachers,
better rules and more.
Looking around, I agree,
imagining a neighbourhood heyday,
Hoorah!
I can see how I would be free-er,
with less crime and paved roads,
more jobs,
maybe environmental clean-ups that show.
Moving from a tin shack,
to a brick room or two,
makes me free-er of the shackles,
that hold me down like glue.
I have a job now,
as a farmworker or retail attendant,
working for those,
listed on the stock exchange,
the big business network.
I spend hours working to earn,
in this the land,
of Africa’s indigenous descendants who burn.
In practice though,
sometimes I work,
get paid,
and other times not.
It depends on how,
when the JSE needs me,
that’s how freedom works,
for my lot.
My blood pressure flows,
from an employment contract,
to be renewed in months,
it can be rescinded any day.
At any hour,
my funds may be cut off,
I am a faceless number of no name.
I can’t buy much,
on what I am paid,
the economy is bad,
so they say,
so I skip meals,
focus on what I can control.
Something’s better than nothing, for goodness sake.
I cannot afford electricity,
I hook cables to live,
somewhat like the rest,
a property board game role,
I have learned to pinch
here, there, fold and build a set.
I cannot afford,
to get married or settle down.
A family is a luxury,
when you’re living hand to mouth.
I try not to think about it,
those dreams in my head,
so I consume cheap alcohol,
sometimes weed,
to put me to bed.
I am lazy, stupid,
and too damn poor.
I am criminal from birth,
especially with a penis,
a working class,
who banks on too much,
and ureasonably asks for more.
I am inept, obtuse,
and a constant potential threat.
Like a dark-skinned animal,
a baby that needs discipline and guidance.
I don’t know what I need or want.
I don’t understand how to be a good pet.
I need my betters to explain,
sl-owl-y you see,
what I should expect for myself,
unable to discern with any intelligence,
what is happening to me and the rest.
The culture of people,
that look and live like me,
is the source of all the problems I face.
I don’t try hard enough,
to be less culturally me,
in order to succeed in the business rat race.
But don’t worry,
I too wave the rainbow flag,
before I pass out.
I wrap it tightly around my shoulders,
on the days that I am hungry,
or suffer self-doubt.
I whisper to myself,
maybe you are inept and obtuse,
stupid and criminal.
You should bow at your rainbow betters,
who wear fancy suits.
They are right.
Yes, they should know,
You am free,
although you could be free-er,
if only your parents and you,
weren’t so slow.
If only your leaders,
weren’t self-serving sycophants,
selling you dreams without delivery,
you too would be living,
the best you could earn and bring.
Now, let me try,
to match my betters,
work harder, read and starve more.
I can improve my lot,
if I show enthusiasm for the race,
a polished CV waiting in store.
And soon the political skelms,
will be rid of, good times will be near,
I will be free through personal riches,
living near the piers.
I will have a loving, loyal wife,
with massive breasts,
thick thighs,
and all the rest.
I will have a son, maybe a girl.
I’ll call her Mbali,
a flower,
she will be my world.
I will be a good Dad,
paying all the bills.
My girl can have milkshake,
or ice cream for dessert.
Bread slices,
instead of pap for lunch,
no throat dry with thirst.
I will buy her toys,
like the ones you see,
in the houses,
my grandmother used to clean.
I squeeze more tightly at that rainbow flag,
I feel it inside,
I am excited,
for what I am going to have.
Man, I can do this!
Despite my cultural birth deficiencies,
I see now,
I just needed,
to take more initiative.
Look at me,
I started a business,
on the streets,
selling fruits and spinach,
lettuce and beets.
My gran grows my supply,
on her patch of earth.
Was going well,
until the police rocked up.
They said my boxy stall
was a town, city eyesore,
said I needed a permit,
or I couldn’t stay there any more.
But the permit costs money,
extra money I don’t have.
You should have borrowed money,
they said,
instead of dreaming of becoming a Dad.
I go back home,
and make a call,
to my uncle,
he works for the JSE too.
He says he’s hustling part-time,
to make ends meet,
I’m out of luck,
if only by a few.
I think my black idol,
used the word “pivot” in his last video,
I am sure I can ask for his advice,
without looking like a weirdo.
Oh wow, he said he’s happy to help,
wait, he sent me a link,
to his coaching fees.
If that doesn’t work,
I should research his blog or the net,
he’s sure he covered my circumstance,
sometime in 2003.
Unfortunately, I don’t find anything,
I had to top up my phone’s data,
twice, more than usual,
but I got an idea this morning,
I should go back to school.
Ja, I’m at a private college,
in SA there’s no other kind,
I claim NSFAS,
to pay for some of the cost.
I’m working and studying,
while trying to stay alive.
The finance team,
say I can’t carry on delaying payments,
I better pay on time,
the college will cancel my study,
there will be no favours,
I am responsible for my own life.
I walk home,
today I am tired and beat,
taking my rest,
I stop to sit.
I hear men in the shebeen,
they are loud,
thick bars they spit.
With my back to them,
I hear one saying,
change is going to come,
if we stop this hustling to be free,
you shouldn’t have to be,
a god or a nun.
Survival is human,
he says,
but endemic hustling is scavenging,
no man in his country,
should have to make desperate plans,
all to resist economic ravaging.
Where there is mass injustice,
there should be mass justice,
not begging for a job,
constantly haggling for an increase,
how sus.
Another one says,
the cultural “we” were never stupid,
lazy or inept,
we were given a house,
architected and maintained,
the morphed remnant,
of a global exploitation,
an impoverishment theft.
I’m listening with intent.
I drink their speak like fine wine.
I didn’t learn words,
like systems, processes,
policies; control and influence.
My education was limited,
to isosceles and word rhymes.
Even now, I am learning,
business and marketing,
I don’t know about shares design,
labour loopholes,
the dollar price, multinational deals,
government lobbying,
tax restructuring or fancy legal footwork.
I glance back at these men,
and they look like me,
they’re not in government,
or business suits.
They’re pointing to something wider and bigger,
an invisible house I didn’t know exists.
My idol did not mention the house.
Perhaps he is blind too?
He should sit with these men,
and they can take him up high,
to critically question the view.
That’s what the first guy says,
if you look from above,
the architectural crimes show,
who has had to live with a raw deal,
the struggle having little to do,
with being slow.
Of course, we should strive for excellence,
he says,
there are families,
not doing a proper job.
But there are plenty,
of negligent folks,
whose babes in their innocence,
have it unreasonably easier.
Why is it okay for their parents,
or global friends to rob.
The men stretch and yawn,
saying that the neighbourhood meeting,
starts at six.
The union rep is coming to work,
tomorrow at eleven,
it should be of interest.
Sad that the big unions,
grew bureaucratic,
the men rise from their chairs,
aligned to political,
business power,
disjointed and too accepting,
most workers are unawares.
We need a gust of fresh wind,
fresh blood,
the first guy says,
kids who are hungry enough,
to die for their daughters and sons.
Why die? The second man asks.
The first man scoffs,
do you really think,
the flag holders won’t push back,
if we demand,
a house redesign and build,
something better than new carpets
or an extension for what we lack.
Think, he taps his forehead,
they’ll need to distract,
punish or divide.
Austerity will be whispered,
public service,
renewed for the scatterlings,
maybe local crime stats will be mentioned,
interpersonal race crimes gone high.
They’ll talk about education,
unemployment,
investment and business growth,
what we suffer,
will ultimately,
always be our fault.
I can’t sleep.
I’m staring at the ceiling,
thinking of the men,
who were strangers,
opening windows wide,
mental rearrangers.
I’m lying on the rainbow flag,
I forgot to wave it tonight.
Too busy mulling over the view,
the house we were born into,
what a sight!
I am sitting in a room,
with my comrades.
A year’s gone by,
with us steering the wheel,
the union helm,
waiting to learn more,
from varying shades,
the things we don’t hear or see,
in our common cell, I spy.
The call’s coming in,
it’s from the unionists up north.
They joke,
they should cross the equator sometime,
bringing in a class tourist import.
They tell us,
the struggle must end,
benefiting at the cost of others,
is a sick way for them to survive.
They want to stand,
arm-in-arm with us,
rather than accepting,
that someone other than them must die.
We are mobilising globally, they say,
not locally or regionally any more.
Putting aside our race,
nationality, gender,
the pain of our betrayal,
so that we can rise up,
as a formidable force,
in this, a global class war.
I type up the minutes of the meeting,
for our union brothers up north.
They have asked for a copy,
they are discussing coordination,
global battle strategies and all.
But we have decided,
Africa’s indigenous descendants,
with or without our brothers,
Africa is ours.
We have no need to wait,
for their actions,
we have waited,
hundreds of years,
for our rightful, independent power.
Mobilising across the motherland,
Africa’s hills, valleys and roads,
indigenous descendants,
have found the courage,
to grow and on our own.
I don’t feel excited,
nor glad this time.
I have grown older,
mature enough to know,
national freedom comes with painful redesign,
everyone is going to choose,
probably based on class,
who and what are their sides.
At home,
I sit outside,
on a plastic chair with a bent leg.
Winter has arrived,
and rather than wrap myself indoors,
I found a big,
rusted drum instead.
I place the rainbow flag inside,
cover it with alcohol,
and light the match.
I’m smiling gently,
watching the rainbow burn,
like an old,
infested burning thatch.
My skin heats up,
I hear crackling,
hissing inside.
I am unafraid.
My body will no longer,
be a mere set screw.
I am ready.
Finally ready,
for a different ride,
my feet firm and steady.