Blenheim Reject

A minority in a small town is
like sipping tea with salt
They will Spit, wipe,
Until taste disappears
And depart town

So, When that woman
Put a knife to the pilot’s
Head on the plane, she still had that
salty taste in her mouth

The old Ethiopian man
Who had skin creased like
Next morning sheets
Put his hands over his face
In disbelief or relief

The old Djiboutian women
Who was lost in her dreams
ever since her daughter married
Her Napier lover, lowered her head
In shock or shame

The young Eritrean man
Hoping it wasn’t one of his
Cousins or did he.

The sun heads

The Sun heads








On the last Wednesday of June, the evening bus, its windows still had smudges of rain drops marks and lolly coated finger prints, I sat quietly at the back of the bus staring at the bald headed boy in the seat in front. I have never seen such a clean shaved scalp. The boy slowly turned around and looked straight at me. He had hazel eyes and pale skin like the witch doctors in Dakar.

“ What are you looking at” he said.
His lips were small and pink on the edges.
“Nothing” I said.
“ You’re African aye” he said.
“ Yep..and you’re skinhead isn’t” I said.
The boy snorted then laughed. My hands fiddled with the straps of my bag. I swiftly moved my gaze out the window.

“I guess we both a minority then” the boy said.
“Um...how so” I said.
“ Well people always stare at you don’t they ” He said.
I think he was confusing nonconformist with ethnic minority.
“ I suppose so” I said
“ Well same here” he said. He cracked a smile. Perhaps he was the inclusive type.
“ Yah but do you tick the other box” I fired back.
“What do you mean” he said. he slurred his words. I wondered if he dropped out of Kings Collage
“ Well when you go to the dentist..or the doctor... and they hand you one of those forms to fill out they always ask if you are Pakeha, Maori, or Indian but never African .We simply don’t account.” I said.

The boy frowned and licked his bottom lip. The radio was playing one of Cat Steven’s songs as it halted on the corner of surrey street. I moved towards the door to get out.

“I’m Toby” he said
“ Fatima” I mumbled.
once I hoped out , I tried not to look back at him as the bus started to move. That would be staring and that would be rude.

When I reached home, I went around to the back door , walked past the kitchen sink. I found Mama sitting in the dinning chair looking down , with her hands over her head. She looked up once she sew me.

“oh I didn’t see you there....how was school” Mama said.

Her eyes were slightly cerise. Mama had glowing ebony skin, but she also had a small mark that was the shape of a circle, on her left cheek. Careful Amir told me that once in Dakar , a lady in the market sold mama some milk that was half water. When mama confronted her the women jumped up and bitted Mama’s cheek until mama begged her to let go.
I placed my bag on the dining table.
“where is Amir ” I said.
“he is out in the backyard” Mama said. “ but don’t disturb him..he’s painting the fence”
“ Why it’s not even the weekend” I said.
“ Those bloody sun heads have painted trash on the fence again” Mama said.
“You mean skinheads Mama” I said. Mama waved her hand as if to say she could care less what they were called at this stage.




Careful Amir was at side of the footpath, he was applying thick brown paint on to the fence. His bare feet were covered in paint spit. Uncle Abdul always said Careful Amir was terribly unfit for such a young boy.

“ What did they write this time” I yelled out as I walked towards him.
“Shakespeare is black” Careful Amir mumbled
“Phew” I said. “I thought he was gay ” as if they two were mutually exclusive.
Careful Amir started to laugh hysterically.
“Well he sure was gay at heart” said Careful Amir.
Our jokes were becoming like a recycled friend’s episodes. This was Careful Amir’s fault. He never took notice of the words written on the fence.
“If we paint at a fast pace we could get it all done before Papa gets home” said Careful Amir. Papa usually did long shifts at the butcher shop. The only day he left early was Friday to go to the Mosque.
“ Thank the heavens it’s not Friday aye” I said. Careful Amir grunted and then sighed.


After Mama popped her head in from Careful Amir’s bedroom window to see we weren’t snatched by anyone, Toby rode past us on his bike and then stopped near where the paint cans were placed.
Careful Amir turned around instantly and gave Toby a weird look.
“ Hey” Toby said. He looked directly at me and seemed to not notice Careful Amir was even there.
Careful Amir stared at me with a disbelief look on his face.
“ Hi” I said. I did not dare smile.

Random

The discovery of bits of paper that appears out of nowhere when you looking for something else is always intriguing. It is almost always in familiar handwriting yet so foreign, surely I didn’t write this you say,

Tuvalu an antisocial aristocrat, so no one understood him
And why on earth was he chasing the sea
before he met her he was antisocial
Tuvalu that is.

and then there is

"anguishing exquisiteness of her eyes and the delicate movements of her face." The attraction is mutual. They seem to be on the verge of a highly illicit affair, one made all the more improbable by their starkly different backgrounds and by the social constraints imposed on women"

White Othello

Gone, I am weary of the unseen
If it becomes known
As if I would be disowned?

We loll in bed
Like night and day
Until noontime

Thou desire elope all tragic ends,
come , shall, come

And what of the kin ? They will always be unaware
And always be there.

She had moon eyes, seen from the
Outskirts of the deep oceans,
rival those of Queen Makeda dynastīa
When she blinked people ogled.
It was like a cloud walking past the sun
But their eyes glistened when she yawned too
Alas, they will never see her
The kin did daily tasks
Roaming around her as always,
Until King Solomon arrived at their doorstep,
And asked for her hand,
Maybe heart too.

They put the mat on the sand.
The father and elderly tribe locked hands.
Five camels and two bags of gold later
She was his and no longer alone

My grandmother and I
Sat under the light shade of a tree and she began:

Before my time there was a Queen
Who sprouted a birthmark on her face – just on the cheeks
At first, but she watched it every day
And wore her woven hood low to hide
A paint mark of unassuming nature

But a Queen, of course, never washes her own hair
Her women-maid knew to well about the queen’s pain
And day by day thoughts grew
Inside her, a-letter-or –word
A sad secret that had to be spoken
With her dark circled lips

They listen, you’re mistaken
She said

They said even dead souls can’t keep secrets.
She said, huh

There were folks who dreamed of such talk
But she slept on a bed of burning ground.

Then, on dawn-break, she could feel it no more
Her feet took flight like the morning light through the trees,
She ran to the end of the light shade
Under the tree, she dug and whispered to the
Earth and whispered her secret
“Queen Makeda has a birthmark”,

Do not disrupt my grandmother says
Taking her tree bark, placing it between her teeth
And her kohl circled lips.

To Dunedin, and part way back



When father called
To say he will take another wife
He dialled a bullet to mother’s heart

Mama threatened to burn down,
The house he shall build with ugly goat.

Mama booked a flight
That never took off.

Now that you divorced mama
Seven children,
Two grandchildren

Now that you are alone
Who will carry your name?
And write your epitaph.

Eviction

Standing outside my rented porch
Reading letters and lighting a cigarette
Are intertwined thoughts, natural?

A seal in a suit, bushy brow sprouting,
Over his Nordic forehead,

Coal voice howls,
“There is no grey area”
What on earth was he on about?

Early thinking and you standing outside my door
“Is really not called for”, she says

There were no fits of emotions
Thrown in the air, yet the lanky
Pot plants of next door
Continuously stare