Umkhenza aka, she’s,
uya thethiswa.
A citizen is
never to be beaten, but
given a tongue-lashing
There’s a red dog
inside of him
of-which even he’s not cognizant;
the inheritance of frustration,
anger endowment,
all things hereditary
He greets the raising
of the sun
standing at the gate
with a tin tea-cup
he’s been romancing
longer than necessary
The temperature decreases
like a mortal coil
that has given up the ghost
a fortuitous ice-tea
He, mentally, maps-out
how to navigate
his “mobile store” today.
Being a carte-wheel vendor
in White City
is an art, not a science
The sun osculates him
while in his daze,
consequently calling him
to come to.
The epiphany is that
day-light is wasting
and citizens need fruit
He neglects the tin tea-cup
on the broken-down fridge
which has since become
a make-shift tool-shaft
Behind the shack
next to the shackled dog (leash for what?)
is the four-wheeled “pacing steed”,
the quintessential business
He drags it out
with necessary roughness,
refusing to negotiate
with terrorists
that is,
the assortment of stones impeding.
En route to his supplier,
neighbours greet with encouragement,
happy to witness reformation
right before their eyes_
