Johannesburg 1965
As a baby barely able to walk,
I walked in the long corridors
of the apartment block that belonged to us
pulling-pulling on the big collie dog
that was smiling at me all the time
and wanted to lick me in my face,
taking a broom
I held the handle against my head
and when I slipped and fell
my whole forehead was cleft open
with blood pouring out
as if from a fountain.
One afternoon I got hold of the shoe polish
smearing my face full of Nugget
and I looked like dear old Sofie
and she laughed with white teeth
while cleaning my face,
carried me to the top floor
where we looked out on De Bergen Street
seeing trams passing hopping on the tracks
and the passing people dumbfounded me.
Some of the Portuguese tenants
called me “bambino, ”
giving me Marie-biscuits
and green, purple and black olives
while they stroked through my hair
and still I am wondering
if they were longing
for their children and wives in Portugal?
poem by Gert Strydom
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