SOME LINES FROM MAFIKA PASCAL GWALA My boots jar me as I take the corner off Grey Street Into Victoria’s busy, buzzy Victoria Beesy Victoria’s market area. Some black mamas kneeling their hands on the sidewalk their second-hand clothes before them, They kneel as if in prayer. A white hippie bums towards them with what shapes into a pair of fawn corduroy jeans: ‘They are fishbottomed’, the aunt tilts the deal. The seller hooks a feigned smile with his cagey chin, Looks like they both have no choice So the limp deal is sealed. With unease the hippie moves off You’d swear he’s left a bomb to detonate; I radar his moves whilst yarning my eyes onto the mama, the mama still on that solemn kneel that’s accompanied by somber looks from close range. Where’s that hippish fixer? Into the market lanes for a blow-up; And the black mama to scrounge a sale after a wash of these sweaty pants that can only be bought by some black brother whose boss won’t give him enough to afford a pair of decent trousers. And again I know I’m being taken for a ride.
Posted on: Mon, 08 Sep 2014 13:37:07 +0000
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