The Woman at the Till

She had a plain, hard face,
a head thrust forward like a hawk’s.
Impossible brass triangles
dangled from pierced ears,
improbable steel manacles
cluttered her thin arms.
Clearly, she had little love for the world:
she had learned, though,
that she would not win,
so she did not throw your change at you,
nor did she press it in your palm,
but placed it, sullenly,
on the counter in between.
She would wrap your purchase languidly,
yet fast enough to cut off a complaint,
and when she had her punch-up with the till,
it was an exercise in ferocity,
delicately restrained.
She was what we call ‘maboer’,
a low white trash,
AWB most probably,
slouching barefoot in Boksburg or Mayfair West.
I did not feel any particular hate for her,
perhaps because I was what
she would call a low black trash,
which made us quits.
And then I noticed that
she did not look at or thank
anyone, black or white,
and such an undiscriminating unsociability
won for her my respect!
But then one day a brazen clash
of colours drew my eyes
from their customary casting down,
the ritual bartering of cash for cloth,
the careful I-do-not-see-you stale pretence –
She had bought herself a brand-new blouse,
a rioting of palms and psychedelic birds,
a raw, extravagant, revolutionary thing,
as African as I.
I exclaimed in wonderment I could not hold in –
‘What?’ she barked,
looking at my hands.
‘I said your blouse is beautiful.’
For the first time ever she looked into
my eyes, and time stood still:
her universe turned on an axis thin as a pin.
Then a strange and lovely tenderness touched her mouth,
a faint blush tinged her dead-white skin:
‘Thank you,’ she said, and smiled.