05-27-2014, 01:57 AM
Mbali watches oil get hot, the acrid smoke brings tears to eyes.
She knows that when the flames spit bright the heat is right and bread will rise.
With gentle squeeze, a baby's hand, the dough yields, soft in floured palms.
She rolls and shapes the white, round cakes and kisses every one
before the oil baptises them with foment, faith and flame.
Mbali prods and turns them once, golden in the seething pot;
bad luck will call if one turns back and burns the cracking crust as black
as brother Ebo's head. Smiling at the thought she lets the Lord take care of things;
He always watches over her and makes her vetkoek passion bread.
Mbali hums as hot, crisp buns are hoisted from the cleansing oil
then stacked on mats of sweet-corn stems, to cool before the devil calls.
And he will call: to take the bread and drink his due of Khoikhoi wine.
Mbali will be hiding in the bushland by the stream, afraid to make
a sound until the devil calls her name. She will crawl, flat to the land
in dust and dirt, up to his feet; squirming while she praises him,
beseeching him to leave. She'll beg him not to take her to the hut
for this one time but the devil never listens so Mbali drops her eyes
and cries new tears of cruelty... then silently complies.
Afterwards the devil throws her hard, dry vetkoek crumbs;
she'll eat and drink the dreg-filled wine then wash hard in the stream.
She looks up to the polished sky; cleaner now but still unclean
and thanks the Lord that once again he helped her to survive.
Mbali knows for now she's safe, she knows the devil knows this, too.
Soon she will have fifteen child-years, old enough to wed:
she prays for death to take her as she kneads fresh vetkoek bread.
tectak
Out of SA
2014
She knows that when the flames spit bright the heat is right and bread will rise.
With gentle squeeze, a baby's hand, the dough yields, soft in floured palms.
She rolls and shapes the white, round cakes and kisses every one
before the oil baptises them with foment, faith and flame.
Mbali prods and turns them once, golden in the seething pot;
bad luck will call if one turns back and burns the cracking crust as black
as brother Ebo's head. Smiling at the thought she lets the Lord take care of things;
He always watches over her and makes her vetkoek passion bread.
Mbali hums as hot, crisp buns are hoisted from the cleansing oil
then stacked on mats of sweet-corn stems, to cool before the devil calls.
And he will call: to take the bread and drink his due of Khoikhoi wine.
Mbali will be hiding in the bushland by the stream, afraid to make
a sound until the devil calls her name. She will crawl, flat to the land
in dust and dirt, up to his feet; squirming while she praises him,
beseeching him to leave. She'll beg him not to take her to the hut
for this one time but the devil never listens so Mbali drops her eyes
and cries new tears of cruelty... then silently complies.
Afterwards the devil throws her hard, dry vetkoek crumbs;
she'll eat and drink the dreg-filled wine then wash hard in the stream.
She looks up to the polished sky; cleaner now but still unclean
and thanks the Lord that once again he helped her to survive.
Mbali knows for now she's safe, she knows the devil knows this, too.
Soon she will have fifteen child-years, old enough to wed:
she prays for death to take her as she kneads fresh vetkoek bread.
tectak
Out of SA
2014