How far we have have we come South Africa?
The woman sits on a bus
nothing special about that
It’s not that woman or 1955
times have changed
so they say
which is why this white woman finds herself
sitting on the wrong side of history
on the right side of a local bus which is really
just a white minivan
known as a black taxi
transporting blue collar workers
who are African
not black.
The woman checks herself
for the sweet sickly smell
of sweat
the perfume of hard labour
that pushes its way through the aisle
like a bully forcing people to shift up
pinning their naked skin to vinyl seats
shoulder to shoulder
job to job
sunrise to sunset
but the woman only perspires
lightly
nervously
as is her right and privilege
as a white woman
in a black taxi
transporting blue collar workers
who are African
not black.
The taxi has not progressed
Much for the time it has taken to get
here
which is nowhere really
from what she can see
the road names change slowly
too slowly
off Albertina Sisulu
over Mandela Bridge
looking across at Queen Elizabeth
until finally
a sign she recognises
Jan Smuts
the giant vein that runs
thickly
sickly
through the city
congealed with eyes
through glass plated windows
that see hers shifting
nervously
between two women she only knows as stereotypes
their identities hidden under layers and layers
of synthetic materials
a Proudly South African label loosely tacked on
Made in China
The woman is glad when the taxi seats fill up
Because now it will move
quickly
in her direction
but the taxi door keeps sliding open
letting in more and more people
who sit on the edges of seats
and stand joking in the aisles
and the people let them
laugh with them even
like they were long last sisters
and brothers
walking the same long road
to what
freedom?
The woman is sweating now
She has no choice
or voice
that will be heard over the giant plastic bags
That have been past down the rows
And left to squat on empty laps
To make space for more people
to stand up for no-one and nothing
in particular
standing shoulder to shoulder
along Enoch Santonga
like they were about to sing the national anthem
in his honour
but couldn’t find the music for all
the empty promises
that leave them
still standing
waiting
in every aisle
Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika
God Bless Africa
