Baby Time

Baby Jordan
Baby Jake
Baby Ariyel
and little baby fake...

Dance like this one
Goog-goo gia like Jake
cute as pie like Ari
and not like him who is 'mountaineering' at 7 months, oh ja!

Chuff like Thomas
play like Abney & Teal
sign with Mr Tumble
be as nice as little Lola

Remember all your favourites
and dream of them at night
cos all of these little bits
will keep you sleeping tight.

Rhyme Time

Rhyme time they sit there and stay well in line
their eyes following the story being told
and waiting patiently for it to unfold
at times they look at each other
to see why, after a poke, there is a bother
and then one tries to shriek or scream
to see if it is attention they'll glean
but after all that - the story told and they've had enough
it's time to mess around with the books and all that stuff
to see what a great big mess can be made
for our mothers, through it all, to wade
and to clean it up for us
so that we can catch our bus.

Flower

Flower was her name.
She walked daintily, always daintily alongside her mother, as if on ballerina feet.  Her toes were the smallest you had ever seen.
Flower loved going on walks, everyday and anywhere, she loved the outdoor world.  She chattered, smiled, skipped, jumped, sang and pointed at almost anything on the way.
Her mother watched her closely with a heart full of love and adoration for her little daughter.
How time had run away with them like a fast moving train at mach speed.  Flower was growing up at a rapid pace and was already a little girl.
Flower liked especially to play with sand and water - balancing on her pointed toes at the edge of a bucket with water in that stood outside the front door.
One day a frog was bathing himself in there.
On another day she chased a spider hurrying on his way.
On another particular day Flower was tempted by a snail cris-crossing a slimy path along the floor as she motioned it towards her mouth... about to taste escargot.
The outside world beckoned Flower and it was indeed HER world.

The Hawkers

They sat outside the old tea room run by the white men.  Raising babies on flattened cardboard boxes which all of them sat on whilst selling their wares from the moment the sun appeared and long after it sank.

In the rain and through the heat, they were there.

Returning to sit in the sun, on the flattened cardboard the day after giving birth.

It was hard, hard work. There was no easy path.

The baby grew up there, on the pavement, outside the old tea room run by the white men.

They sold similar items, in competition, to the white men and outside their shop... their shop for which they paid overheads.  On their doorstop, just there, on the pavement... they sat, sweated, sold and squawked all day amongst themselves in a fashion only women can follow.

Then Betti walked into the shop.

A large african woman who casually seated herself in front of the white man at the till.

'Across the road is a man in a red shirt who is eyeing your shop.  He bent over and I saw he had a gun,' she told him without expression and in one tone.

Alpheus the Security Guard was largely rounded and fierce in every way.  His gun strapped across his front paraded around, bobbing on his belly, all day.  He felt no conflict within when duty called upon him to confront his own people by weapon or death.  The power of it all overtook him.

Then Rosi walked into the shop.

Rosi was also well-rounded, with straight black hair and impeccably spoken English.  Raised in Zanzibar, learning English as her first language and only Zulu later.

She would converse with the Owner's wife, for hours, in perfect English about this and that and the other.  There they stood, bent over the till, like two housewives speaking over the fence.  It went on for hours at a time.

The boss was away.  The hawkers decided to strike outside, multitudes of them led by a plastic badge wearing 'Hawker Supervisor.'  Large women, ranting, raving and dancing in a 'toy-toying' effort to make themselves heard.  Not to be meddled with, these women, well-sized and easy handed with throwing the punches.

Then Katrina walked into the shop.

She was party to these dancing, singing, shouting strikes ... from one foot to the other she hopped and shouted in zulu, standing in the entrance to the white man's shop, face to face - centimetres away - with the white man in the shop.  She had come to enjoy this particular white man who grew good relations with a number of them on the pavement outside the store.

As she chanted, jumped, shouted in Zulu then English... she winked as she declared 'the white man must humba, close your shop.'

The shop closed for an hour or so until eventually the Security Guard approached the white man on duty in the shop. 

'They say they are thirsty out there, Sir and they say what can they do about it?', he reported.

The kind gentleman dished out a family sized coke, as they knew he would do.

An applause and shouts arose outside in cheer of the white man.

White man you must humba but oh white man we need you.

The hawkers.

Jiblah

Jiblah was small and gangly.  He wore a charismatic face and had a jive to his walk.

Nobody quite understood why his mother had given him this name, Jiblah.  It troubled everyone what the possible meaning could be.  The old folk would take chances at guessing and the suggestions that arose would reach far and wide. 

Some said it meant 'tiny elephant'.  Although he was small, he had the heart of a large elephant.  Grandpa would say he could hear the drumming of Jiblah's heart and knew that Jiblah had a unique sound to him.

Of course Jiblah's popularity soared amongst the people as he grew.  He was much loved by all who knew him and even those who met him.

"Jiblah, Jiblah", his mother would say with deep love as she caressed him.  She ran her fingers slowly through his thin, brown strands of hair.

He had the softest hair, his mother would tell him.  Like his fathers.

Jiblah's mother loved his father.  She liked to fix his hair too - his hair was a shade lighter.  They thought it was the sunshine that did this, as he worked long hours in the sun. 

The Beat

Africa would always be there - deep in the heart.  How I longed for the african skyline.  The  beat of Africa was always there, and like a drum, it contined to beat on and on.  Repetitively, and in synchronisation with the calling of the african bird.  The stories of Africa were many - they held their own weight and value.  The common story of an african experience was one of, well, tragedy.  With the full sun, heat and bliss of a life lived closely co-existing with nature... came a familiarity with sacrifice and heartache.  A stone tossed into the water, in Africa, would alert ceaseless ripples.  A ripple that served as a catalyst for a never-ending ripple.  Something magical and enigmatic lay at the very epicentre of Africa.

Leon spoke of the African Boy

Leon always knew what to say and in a very particular way.  He played with the others on the playground and rode bikes.  Leon enjoyed almost all things that other children did and yet when it came to storytelling - they all knew he was the king.

         And so Leon thought of a story to share which was about 'the african boy.'  Everyone loved this one, especially Pearl who sat next to him in English class.  She had a favourite pencil with red polka dots on it and she would twist it in her mouth as she said to Leon, 'Tell me again about the african boy.'

Her eyes would sparkle and her mouth curled at the corners while she listened.

Pearl had the prettiest freckles and shiny hair. 

        Leon's story went on, 'the small-framed african boy who walked by the river every day, twice a day, went by the river on a particular day.  It was mid-week, early in the morning and not many others were about at this time.  As he went, he looked high into the skies and searched the heavens.  He could predict the weather, not far into the future, but on the day.  Early in the morning, for some strange reason only when he stood by the river, he could look into the blue air and see something else that was not yet there.  How he had grown accustomed to seeing the same skies on his walks by the river day after day.

       Even when the weather patterns were not monotonous, he could tell what the day ahead held.  Today, he raised his large brown eyes into the sky and stopped for a moment in his tracks.

      'Uh-huh,' he commented.  He stood for awhile.  A fish commotioned in the water and the ripple effect spread.  His gaze remained steady.  Sipho had already walked for miles and had a long journey yet ahead of him.  The sky never changed and it looked clear to the normal eye. 

      'Mmmmm,' he said with a frown and uncertainty. 

Whenever others heard this story, they would ask Leon with frustration, 'What was Sipho thinking? Oh tell us Leon, don't make us wait,' but Leon would calmly tell them that the next instalment would only be due on another day.