NOSIPHO KOTA

Township Woman

There is a woman in our township
She lives by herself in a two-bedroomed
house
Her cats are her only children
there are huge trees around her yard.

She is called iqgwirha
because she is dark-skinned,
old and wrinkled.
She wears black attire and that qualifies her
as a witch.

There is a woman in our township
she lives alone,
her husband died.
Her children are gone.

She is called umhlolokazi.
The dogs bark at her.
Taxi drivers don’t want her in their taxis,
its assumed she’ll bring bad luck.

There is a woman in our township
she lives alone,
in her subsidised house.

She is called amarosha,
by other women,
who think that she is out to get their men.
no one invites her to the social gatherings.

There is a woman in our township
She is an alcoholic
She drinks herself to oblivion.

She is called unotap,
she uses her children’s maintenance grant
to fund her booze consumption.

There is a woman in our township
She is baby-making machine
She produces a child every two years.

She is called inkomazi
She seldom goes out,
cause she has to breastfeed her lot.

There is a woman in our township
She is a small business woman,
And asks nothing from nobody.

She is called Iscwinana
Her home is well-furnished.
She eats out in fancy restaurants.

There is a woman in our township.
She shops at exclusive boutiques,
her wallet bulges with credit cards.

She is called umadam.
Her hobbies include going to the movies,
and come Sunday morning, she’s off to
Health and Racquet.

There is a woman in our township,
She is unemployed.
She basks in the sun all day long, gossiping.

She is called unolokishi.
She is obsessed with other people’s affairs,
drinking tea with our people’s miseries.

There is a woman in our township
She is beggar and thief.
She’s ungrateful

She is called ubergie,
She takes without permission.
And would sell her soul for a piece of meat.

There is a woman in our township
she is a shebeen queen.
Men’s wages are her means of survival.

She is called unosekeni.
She is loud and speaks non-stop.
She should have become a soccer commentator

There is a woman in our township
She sells vegetables at the bus terminal.
She earns her living doing laundry for Mrs
van Niekerk.

She is called unokitshi.
She wears takkies and blue overalls, with a 
pretty apron,
that madam gave her for Christmas.

There is a woman in our township.
She is happily married or so she says.
She eats Kentucky Fried Chicken every
Friday.

She is called umastandi.
She looks after children and her in-laws.
Does her chores to perfection,
on month-ends her husband’s wages is
tucked in her bosom.

On His Funeral

His obituary
Was brief and short.

Only twelve lines.

He left no grieving spouse.
No children, no parents.

His coffin lay on the concrete stoep,
Plain cheap wood.

No flowers.
No tears.

No speeches.
No lies.

Just the simple funeral of a young man.

Until I Saw You

Until I saw you
I thought nobody lived there.
Until I saw you one evening,
Sitting on the red stoep,
Your feet firmly placed on the pavement,
A cigarette dangling from your chubby fingers.

Until I saw you,
I thought your home,
Was like the sea
On a cloudy day,
Deep and 
Well-rested.

Now I see that it is you
Who lives in the cottage
With the curtains forever drawn,
The doors constantly locked,
No sounds coming from your home,
No smell of chicken soup in the air.

Leaving

A tug in my heart
A lump in my throat
A stone in my stomach
A sigh in my mouth

The car lights are on
Metro FM plays a song
The windows are down
The car reverses

Windows are rolled down
We say the last words
Thoughts fly on
Mother stands at the gate alone

It’s Sunday night
The robots are green
The road is empty
The tar is wet

A few men stand at the corner
A cigarette-light on
Grey smoke makes a circle
From the mouth and nose of the smoker.

The darkness doesn’t scare me
The moon shines on
The stars witness
My leaving home.

Neighbours

Neighbours always know
what’s going on
but on that night
when her body was found
with fourteen knife wounds
her underwear hanging on her neck,
her blood painting the wooden floors,

everybody said they did not hear a thing,
they swore.

She died alone.

No one heard her screams
piercing through her shack.
The neighbours were sleeping
while she was battered,
hacked,
and left to die alone.

Like a Log

My body
is mine,
skin,
blood and veins.

When you enter,
you push,
you thrust,
and fumble in.

It eludes me,
how you groan and moan,
sweat and sigh,
while I lay there,
revolted.

A House

There have been days
when I have felt
like a house
left
destitute
on a mountain-top