Inflation

Jenna Mervis

Remember that old one rand coin
with the springbok spread midway
over the kgalagadi nickel veld?
That shiny silver disc
simplified every child’s world
into liquorice and chappies and wicks
and granadilla blimps
hovering over sticky fists.

Little girls and boys consumed
banks of the stuff
over a school year.
But we had one each,
just one,
saved for civvies day
when we could throttle each other
on the playground
(or jump rope or roll marbles or spit)
out of uniform.

In the tuck shop queue
one rand meant
chips and a chocolate milk
and a startling fizzer
that would wrap its pink tentacles around molars
suction loose teeth from the gum.
Small pleasures
so rare with packed lunch.
There in the palm of a hand
our one rand would rest
like a golden egg
full of promise.

Remember those slightly ridged edges
like an escarpment thrown up by the earth
the faces on the back,
the coat of arms.
They could buy milk and bread.
Then only milk.
Then only bread.
Then just chappies.
Then not even the gum.
It shrank in value
to a springbok’s hyphenated leap,
became smaller, lighter
as we grew
bigger, heavier, up.

LitNet: 12 July 2006

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