Spare a thought for little girls who run homes without parents: Heres a poem I wrote after my heartrending experience with brother (12) and sister (16). A tint of conscience Last night I dreamt some very pretty dreams: My sister slouched, eyes gaping, cold and dead. But when I wake up, there she is my dread, Amok as ever: pranks and stunts and schemes. Rae beams a smirk and bugles like a swan. Pretending to be cultured yet so sly. She flings a slice so dry I crawl and cry; And yells, ‘Just eat I’m late for hair salon”. Once she is gone, I struggle to the lawn, And sink inside our granny’s rocking-chair. I see kids walk to school; this can’t be fair. I cry again all night yearning for dawn. Before the dawn I eagerly await, She bellows orders that I should obey, “Wake up, the social worker comes today”. Rae scrubs the mess and whines about my weight. The social lady hunkers down my dungeon. More peanut butter, cooking oil and blue soap. My Sister shrieks and gripes she cannot cope, “Boys with no hands need nurses and a matron”. The mounting stress is very hard to mention, And broken-hearted Rachel gets more sulky: “Since mother died I’ve taken care of Flunkie; I’m chasing sixteen and want education.” Tonight it’s fried eggs, dumplings, snails and cries. Announcing she and I are poor and desperate; She’ll get her friend who runs a salon racket, To take me to a place with scenic sunrise. I sink inside our granny’s rocking frayed chair, My heart is sore my hungry lips are burning. Those rumbling sounds betray my stomach churning. My fate is shaped by nameless men of hair? I see grass wither, flowers tumbling over. And dread the secret place with scenic sunrise. My wandering, puzzled mind I can’t disguise. I think that place is where they took our mother. As shadows stretch, I grab some snacks and water. Behold my bubbly sister chanting madly, “Oh, Happy birthday Flunk,” she tweets more wildly. But I foresee some grave mischief soon after. Though things bode well, my chest pulsates with heartache: Rae snaps, “You just stop acting like an orphan.” I play along to urge her heart to soften. Our Mama would have baked me chocolate fruitcake. With little warning, Rachel lifts a dishpan, And there is ‘fish and chips’ and cake and more bite. Rae crows, “Have fun this day to your delight” I jump inside like mad as if I can. My birthdays bring sad memories every year, For such are days to hark back to my woes. Rae frowns and swears she’ll get me shoes and clothes. How strange, I’ve never seen her that sincere. I come upon a tint of decent conscience. Although I hate Rae every wretched day, She lends a hand before each wayward way. Forgive me Lord I prayed for evil vengeance. The salon man is into grave surprise. Rae too has felt a tint of decent conscience: “The man was meant to steal you to some woodlands, And not a place with charming scenic sunrise.” Rae Sister speaks with telltale signs of bother: In truth the barber man she quite abhors; He makes her do odd things behind closed doors. With tears she says, “I love you Flunk my brother.” Her tears crash on my stumps and make me dizzy. “The barber met his Maker down the highway”. Rae runs amok like mad and chants a “hooray!” Again, she beams with bliss and bawls, “We’re free!” A poem by Sipho Ernst Mahlobo from Wrinkled Reflections.
Posted on: Wed, 13 Nov 2013 10:58:14 +0000
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