Freddy Nyezi
“Surrounding and towering over labantu are tall, white and beige apostates whose silver tongues disguise them as apostles.
Ababantu are cobblers in the cobblestone square.
None knows the distance they’ve travelled, how long they’ve hobbled, except for their bare feet.
Their bare backs on the ground, legs in the air,
They have been fucked by the missionaries.
The very same ornaments their forefathers and mothers derived themselves from, they sell to the apostates without an inkling of what it all means.
The same ground where they sell of themselves is the same ground that they were sold on; the merchandise became the merchant.
The Greenmarket Square is a squatter camp, each stall is a shanty.
The drudgery is written on the toiling faces of these people.
I saunter awkwardly to where the stands are situated, each laboured face looks up, hopeful for business, but I have nothing on me except for a pen and paper.
I am only there to strip them of their ethnic fabrics, to study the fabric of their identities in situ and then to fabricate what I think is their truth.
“I’ve got a nice leather bag for you, my son” touts a woman.
My face winces, my stomach churns and my head is heavy. My prayer that no one would try to sell to me was unanswered.
How do you say no to your mother?
All the ornaments and fabrics and masks that adorn their booths mean something beyond aesthetics,
This space knows something beyond geography,
And I can feel something in the air beyond the thick humidity of the sun.
There are voices, beyond the white (people) noise chatter of pedestrians, that wish to say something.
These thoughts tug at me.
I am here for ‘Africa’, but they are here for their lives.
There is a church adjacent.
There are more black folded hands than there will ever be folded sandwiches.
Ababantu have been had by the missionary,
They have gone on their knees, heads up and mouths open
In prayer but now they are on all fours,
They are scrounging to be seen.”
These are the words that I think and write as I inspect the space. These are the stories that I read like essays off of their wrinkles but none of them have told me any of this,
I think I know.
Being a black student waltzing past their booths for an excursion feels intrusive. I have nothing to offer except observations [read: assumptions] on a page. These are my people, but I arrive in their space as if they are in a menagerie, existing for me to observe them. This is not an exhibition!
I have arrived at their house unannounced. I have ripped off the roof and stuck my head in. I have torn down the door and invited myself to the table where they sup. I am sitting and staring and whipping out a pen and paper to jot down how this family drinks, chews and swallows, all this while expecting them to not be offended.
This space reveals itself to me as a site of variation and medley, where many cultures tango to the hustle and bustle of feet and the hoots and toots of cars and the cha-chings of dollars, loose change and change. It is a site of migration, relocation and departure. It is a space of assimilation and integration. It is a subsistence farm in the middle of a concrete jungle.
It is not heaven, but it is theirs… until 18:00,
When the city wants them out.
The Greenmarket Square is a monopoly board game.
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