Charcoal Sellers Of The Apartheid Era Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

In tractors they came as dark as ever,
Charcoal powder on them and out we went
To get the charcoal for stoves had to
Burn at five o'clock in smoke chimney
Township where smoke filled the air,
As if the earth had suddenly decided
To smog the world.

The smell of charcoal filled the air
Somewhat nostalgic this smell so foreign,
Yet so comforting for it means food,
Shall be on the table for parents went
To work to buy bread and fish.

So old this manyano woman walking
The streets while taxis zoom up and,
Down like it is yesterday's street
Wedding when my cousin married her
Groom as dust stirred and hit the sky.

We walked on sideways littered
And did not see much litter for
It had become flowers of the pavement
That told us taxis still drove
With passengers throwing garbage
Out as they got off at the next stop
In our Benoni township of Wattville.

Times have passed and the coal stove
Has become an expensive antique that
Costs tens of thousands when only
Yesterday you could get it for
A hundred or two.

Warmth is scarce in these days
Where even security guards
No longer light up fires and roast
Corn by the wayside while they
Wait for the night to go out and
Let in the day so they can go
Home for when the world wakes
That is when they rest and when
It rests that is when the clock
Strikes seven for these laborers
Of the night.

Charcoal stoves up in the morning
Coughing out fire that glows with
Saucepans on top shiny for steel wool
Knows its work in Africa south. Such
Is the work that kept the morning
Tea in my belly before I woke for
I could taste the butter on the slice
That would see me off to school
Only to see them once again charcoal
Sellers in their garb so black delivering
Coal for a city that needs it.

Dare you laugh at these laborers in
Your uniform black and white
Scholar and your gym dress and belt
Could mix with dirty coal. Dare you laugh
At the bucket toilet pickers who
Might empty the contents on the yard
And dress it with smelly stuff just
To fix you. You better not for this
is a livelihood designed and sealed
In the books in Pretoria and know it
Or not you are bound for the grave in
Some rigid graveyard designed on the
Color of your skin for this is
A mark that says it all about you
For you walked out with it straight
Out of your mother's belly.
.


No sewerage system no electricity
Means people must shuffle and do
The work of the plumber with their
Arms carrying and pouring little
Miniature you when you pile and pour
In the mystery of the small enclosed
Toilets where people can see your feet
From the outside.Hard life this township
Life where everything goes and never
Comes back just as does the money or
Else the ships of the town these so
Called townships would have long glistened
With lights bright.