PORTER’S LODGE

PORTER’S LODGE

Demeanour, very abject
Appearance, shabby
Clothes, tattered and dirty
Hair, unkempt, dirty red
Eyes, Glassy
Face, forlorn, very distant
Personal hygiene, nothing to write home about
Unwelcoming body odour
Teeth, far from shiny
A mixed shade of brown and black
Adorned with yellow for aesthetic balance.


They troll the market squares
Lorry stations and parking spaces
Carrying pans and wooden boards,
These being the tools of their trade.
In search of loads to carry
Just to make an honest wage.


They have inundated the city
Travelling mostly from far far away,
All in search of an illusionary dream.
Wage, far from a dream
A pretty miserable wage.
Abode, they cannot be choosy
Anywhere will do
As long as they can lay their heads.


In no time, many take seed,
They sleep rough at night
And fend for themselves during the day.
From the very first day of their arrival
They’ve always been mothers in waiting
The only thing missing,
A street hoodlum or vagrant
With a rough demeanour and a salty tongue
In search of a joy ride
Last thing on his mind is fathering a child.


After that,
An uphill struggle of one
Becomes that of two.
Situation already looked bleak
Without a helping hand,
Now she fends for herself and
A newborn baby girl.
A life of untold misery has just began,
With a baby riding behind,
She walks the length of the business
District looking for load to carry.
There’s no standard measurement
For the load she carries
Just give her a load
She’ll gladly carry.


All she needs is a boost and her priceless
Load sits atop it’s kingly throne.
She carries this heavy burden on her head,
Walks for minutes or hours
Depending on where the load decides alight.
Shouting out agoo agoo
For people to make way for her.
She sometimes trips while carrying her load,
Dropping her burden onto a market woman’s wares.
Then comes the exchange of words
Invectives and other colourful expletives
She tries her best to weather the storm
But one against many is never a fair fight.
Sometimes they let her go with just the insults,
A sound flogging is sometimes her just reward.


She earns a menial wage
She does not work for minimum wage.
No health insurance
No education,
Nowhere to sleep,
No one to fall on in hard times,
A lone ranger living far from home
Taking on a cruel world
Embracing an uncertain tomorrow
With a successor in waiting firmly anchored on her back
A baby girl soon to join her mother’s trade.


For how long can you live off your pittance?
What future awaits you and your child?
You brought forth a child into misery
She will forever remain trapped in your misery.
When will the cycle be broken?
When will these mothers stop passing on the
Buck to these fatherless children?
Your mother is destitute,
You have been born into destitution,
The odds are heavily stacked against you,
How do you overcome such staggering odds?


As little as age eight or nine,
You will be given the tools of your trade,
A metallic pan or a wooden board,
Then you will begin work in the market square,
Earning paltry sums for the heavy burdens you carry.
I pray you do not drop your load,
Little girl I pray you do not trip and fall,
That would certainly be an uncomfortable experience.
Your age mates are at home,
Playing with their toys,
Watching television
And throwing tantrums all day long
While you slave away in the market all day long
For a meager wage.
Soon you’ll be old enough to take seed
And you will follow in the steps of your mother.


A child you shall also bring forth
In teenage years.
A growing child thrust into the cauldron of motherhood,
This is no future to look forward to,
This sort of life is not one for the feint of hearts.
You need a heart much tougher than a lion’s heart,
You need a back far stronger that of a camel.
You reside in our nation’s porter’s lodge.
Kayayoo is your name,
In this very lodge, you might forever reside
Your future is coloured grey,
Grim and bleak seems your perfect tomorrow.
When will you free yourself off these burgeoning shackles?
For I see no happily ever after in this life of yours.


Please, this I beg of you,
The next time you visit the market square,
Keep an eye out for their burdensome loads
And the little children on their backs,
Do keep an eye out for wan smiles and grumbling feet.
Thump thump goes the kayayoo’s feet
Clad in flimsy footwear
And colourful dirt.
Do listen intently to the kayayoos on the beat
Listen attentively to the heartbeat of the market place,
For thump thump goes the market’s heartbeat,
Thump thump goes the kayayoo’s feet
The kayayoo, the market’s heartbeat
Her cumbersome load
Forever her bane.