Infant wails echo in the place I used to call home, the place where I first spoke,

If these walls could talk they’d tell tales of kwaito blasting out of the FM radio,

Or the retired coal stove that nourished us,

They’d speak of the endless hours I spent mending my wire car,

And the lashings I received from my mother – an occurrence I grew accustomed to.

The typical black childhood,

A sweet and sour affair,

Just like my morning porridge that I liked with a dash of vinegar,

And a spoonful of sugar.

Oh, who could forget the hooting from my school transport on the cold winter days,

And the envy I felt for the children with money for sweets.

As I look back,

I can’t help wonder what happened to my childhood friends,

The very first people who taught me how to dream,

I remember the visits to my cousin’s place,

And the laughs we shared as we watched Gundi and Mazwi.