In
my fractured daydreaming I find myself wandering through the tauntingly vibrant
streets of Sophiatown. My presence is as translucent as the colour of my skin.
I am a post-dated ghost. My thoughts are re-incarcerated by a literary analysis
of the stubborn fight for the right to personhood, to man, woman, individual.
Not “boy”, “black”, “maid”. These stab the deepest and when I am a young girl
and my first friend does not share my translucent skin or my straight hair, the
knife`s handle breaks off and something irretrievable remains within me. The
knife constantly stabs at me, leaving me restless and angry. It is stabbed and
turned frivolously by the poltergeists of Sophiatown as I walk through the
pages re-presenting life, as it was lived and felt in Sophiatown.
Images
of brightly lit pool halls and buzzing shebeens are conjured up and projected
against my walls. I close my eyes and I disappear into the wall to a space
where there is no “one” and “other”. There is no us and them.
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