When will summer come?

The cold wind rattles the tiny corrugated shack,

violently.

The fire from the primus stove is now getting

stronger.

Mother puts the pot of water on the stove for the

morning tea.

She looks at her five children huddled together on

the bed, struggling to get warm against the evil

winter.

She reprimands us to stay calm and be quiet.

But our humble home is never one of calmness,

only chaos.

She sits there staring at the pot, waiting to boil.

Contemplating about all her worries.

Food, rent, school shoes and her children not

having enough warm clothes.

It’s a heavy load to carry as a single parent.

Yet she manages.

The water forms little bubbles quickly leading into

torrent and violent waves.

Steam is escaping.

Mother picks up the pot and puts it down on the

cold, hard floor.

She calls her eldest daughter to help in pouring tea

in six of the cups.

Sister frowns.

Maybe it’s the June-July, I don’t know.

Or perhaps she is still nursing her broken heart.

Mother calls for us to sit together on the mat

covered with a blanket.

The plastic full of amagwinya is passed among us

Each of us devouring the fat cakes like wild

animals.

Mother doesn’t eat. She just sits there sipping her

tea, looking at us with a wry smile.

It’s so cold. The fire from the stove is barely

keeping us warm.

We can’t play outside. We can’t go outside.

It’s gloomy and depressing.