lobola

Elma Ferreira

So you were bought and paid for - lobola* for your sweet and sensual self and more.
Someone else has paid a penny for the privilege to portray you in his pedigree.

The master moulded you in placid plaster just to keep you safe from sorrow and disaster. And in his mind he's earned the ownership - you no longer have the right to give him lip.

You're rendered beautiful - now driven by your owner's pull - the pride in his petition for a champion's exhibition, yet oblivious to the solstice in your soul, expecting only that you serve his goal.

So who am I to feed your fervency and fire up the feelings that belong to me?

I hear your soft and gentle cry and sing to you my luscious lullaby when all the while I know your name is written in your owner's file.

I sense your secret sentience, vow to vent my heart so you may view the makings of a different piece of art. Yet I know your cast was built to last, since the maestro's glued it with his knowledge of your past.

So there you sit inside your cave: bold and boisterous and so brave. And here I am, weak and wandering in the wild, lost and lonely like an only child, fingering through the flowers that have flourished in the catchments of your loving showers.

And I ask myself, how much more should I delve into the memories of us when you've already boarded your paid-for bus?

Have I any right to see you through your travels in the night?

Would it really make a difference if I threw my sixes on a dice when you're living off lobola-wine and savory rice?

Or should I cherish just the sounds of you, knocking on my window when you're feeling either fine or blue?

Do you love me, is it true?

I think it's time to find out who is who.




* A set amount paid by a prospective husband to the bride's family among certain peoples in southern Africa.



LitNet: 11 Mei 2005

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