
Poetry | Foundations
Words by Ariana Munsamy and illustration by Alizwa Mnyatheli
my father was a ten year old caddy
a coolie boy
with a dream
there was the smell of freshly baked croissants
you know, the kind that sinks deep into the pit
of an aching stomach
and all he wanted was a taste
him and the other kids, the coolie kids
they stood on the other side of a wall
watching as the white men
paid for a coolie boy to carry their load
And the kids, these coolie kids,
you know how it goes, they would churn
froth with the desire
‘please sir, I was here first’
my father, he always laughs at this story
he was squint, you know, it’s funny
that white man screamed at him
‘you coolie boy where did the ball go?’
and the benches read net blankes
and my father was afraid
but my father wanted more
and so my father bought a Porsche,
it’s painted with the kind of red you find
on the other side of a picket fence
and the benches still read net blankes
but my father is not afraid
yet my father still wants more
because when my father bought that Porsche,
the one with the red, I told you what kind
he called it an investment
not an investment in wealth or status
but legacy.
This piece was first published in Edition 14 of Ja. magazine.

