AGGIE:

Aggie, once a long time ago you were my black nanny, my other mother,

While my real white mother was busy attending to one thing or another,

You daily bathed, dressed & fed me, when ill cared for me, & put me to bed,

Telling me old African tales, not read, but told from your hand, heart & head.

Dressed in fresh pink overall & smelling of African violets & red lifebuoy soap,

You were scared of the Tokolosh, respected our Queen, very in awe of the Pope,

Your knitted tight curls always hidden beneath, what was then known as a doek,

Your old wooden bed, high on four bricks to keep away your enemy the spook.

You kept order in our home, all spick & span clean & every one of us well fed,

On Sundays, my little hand you would take, marching, & to your village you led,

Under the peppercorn tree, next to your hut & in the dust of the hazy shade,

I´d play with little black children calling you Mama, while I had to call you the maid.

Sitting on your lap, tracing your tribal-scarred cheek with innocent child´s little finger,

Taking my small white hand & kissing it, if it stayed on your marks too long & lingered,

You taught me your culture in stories & songs & the old unforgotten Bushman morals,

Showing me where to find ostrich eggs hidden, wild bee’s honey, & real African sorrel.

Colonialism ended, Independence Day came, it was time the white man upped & left,

Saying goodbye to my dear old Aggie was so very hard & left me lost, sad & so bereft,

I ´m old now myself & the years have long died, along with my own father & mother,

But I shall never ever forget my dear Aggie, my warm black African mother, the other.