But who is that being 

that stares back at me

who 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 

drown

there 

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 be

What is my new name 

now keep classi

-fying me

while forgetting

 to uplift me bliksem


by Francesca Marais