My mother
(oh black mothers whose children have departed)
you taught me to wait and to hope
as you have done through the disastrous hours
But in me
life has killed that mysterious hope
I wait no more
it is I who am awaited
Hope is ourselves
your children
travelling towards a faith that feeds life
We the naked children of the bush sanzalas
unschooled urchins who play with balls of rags
on the noonday plains
ourselves
hired to burn out our lives in coffee fields
ignorant black men
who must respect the whites
and fear the rich
we are your children of the native quarters
which the electricity never reaches
men dying drunk
abandoned to the rhythm of death’s tom-toms
your children
who hunger
who thirst
who are ashamed to call you mother
who are afraid to cross the streets
who are afraid of men
It is ourselves
the hope of life recovered.
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