Featured by PhMuseum
We did not speak of the struggle to unionize. But of naked feet thawing in the warm stream of a donkey's piss. The death of your son in Stellenbosch. Not knowing. We did not speak of forced evictions. White privilege. Larneys in Landbruisers. Or moeder Krotoa. But shuddered at the sound of Karoo thunder. Rain lashing the corrugated iron roof of the storeroom.

We did not speak of fetal alcohol syndrome or the dop system. But of becoming a doctor. To be an example to your child. About those with power having only one eye. Playing center. The lack of an ear. We did not speak of a minimum wage. Or structural violence. But of how giving is more important than what you receive. How the roots go in search of sustenance. Of how the vine falls asleep after it has shed its leaves. And how it wakes with tears at the first pruning. One eye telling the other it is time to wake.

We did not speak of the lack of basic sanitary facilities for harvesters. But getting married in '78. Selling wood over weekends. Fishing for black bass. And youth education. Singing 'As Jesus kom, wat sal jou antwoord wees?' [If Jesus comes, what will your answer be..?] on a warm Cederberg night. We spoke in the purest creole of prayer. We spoke in Afrikaans. Kitchen Dutch. Kaaps. But not of marginalization. The scarification of systemic dispossession. 

Instead, we spoke of dreams. Before we fell silent.