I am from a place where hymns of umzabalazo were never sang
A place that sprung, like a pogo stick, into existence
People came here to escape violence
An oasis in the scorching desert of unrest.
I am from a place where life seems to gradually die…
Just before rising to a glorious crescendo!
Like driving through the vast bushveld,
Past dry, golden grass, dying, but still standing tall
And you enter the beautiful town
Wearing its flickering beads of streetlights,
Fluorescent, yellow and bright.
I am from a place where the thick air of fun envelopes you,
As snugly as your childhood blanket.
Children play ’til dusk crawls in,
And the cold air bites their skin,
It weighs down on us like lead.
And even in the darkness, there are jaywalkers
Youth are leaning against crumbling walls of nonchalance.
Cars are parked for no particular reason by the crusty road,
A bone dangling seductively in a dog’s face…
I am from a place called Amaotana,
The place of Mr Mount.