BLACK:

I was raised upon desert´s dunes of singing swaying sands,

Among the golden gentle folk, of the Kalahari Bushman San,

Naked but for loin-cloth & quiver of arrows upon their backs,

Sun-kissed their cheeks & whom the Whities deemed as blacks.

 

I loved those pretty gentle folk & wanted to be one of them,

But I was just a wee Whitie, which made them cackle like hens,

I wanted to strut around naked, with my old arrow & my bow,

Playing all their games, which the Whities didn’t get & didn’t know.

 

The little white kids in the desert, of which there were very few,

Asked of each other, “When you grow up, what you want to do?”

Answers were varied, big white hunter, cop, fireman, singer & nurse,

Others said cowboy, or model, strutting in heels & fancy silver purse.

 

They all awaited my turn to answer, which I did the best that I could,

“I want to watch animals hunting, between the dunes & scraggly wood,

I want to eat creepy-crawlies & dig for roots beneath warm desert dust,

I want to touch dawn with my fingers & weep with the elephant´s musth”.

 

Time past, now I´m an ageing Crone, far from Africa, well out of its sight,

Soul bestowed upon me by golden San, even though they called me white,

And upon the breath of imminent death, I know one day I shall go back.

Dear God, I´m merely a small white child, who only wanted to be black.