But who is that being that stares back at mewho are we without our ancestry? I know not of the “slegs blankes” nie But I have been asked whom I would rather be.
The race to which I would allege my dis – parity
Behind Shaka Zulu there sees my mother’s home beyond down where
Coloureds seem to be left to drownthere down, there away from town.
My fair complex-ion aligns, but not the kroes hair my mother tongue Engels, my Afrikaans sub par forget me nots on my Zulu and the list goes on
Whom as a child to play with when your looks are in between You don’t look rerig Coloured
A non-Coloured once said to me
Where do I find me here lost in the States
Fleeing what no one can explain nor my nation to embrace
In traversing the globe I feel more of me miss more of the root that history has not divulged
The farthest away from my Mama I have come the farthest of the family my Pa could have shown
The little we know of who we should be the palette of our tones The texture of our hair the tongue we are supposed to speak 
What more is required to show my colour so that I may be considered more so how can one be Coloured and deemed wrong for being so how can one be removed from such a term where knowing yourself was learned through just this word
Lacking in understanding the full heritage of being so removing whom I was learn- ed to beWhat is my new name now keep classi-fying mewhile forgetting to uplift me bliksem