Writers Lounge

They are not dirty Klein Missus,
They are black, like the rest of my body.
My face, my legs and my breasts – that's black.
Not like you quipped the other day:
As black as sin; as black as a thief; as black as a killer.
Not like how your ancestors taught:
Black as night.

These hands have always been clean Klein Missus,
don't you remember?
They were clean on that blessed day
of your entry.
I was there, as I had been for offspring before you.
It was a difficult birth,
For 10 hours your mother had been in pain
the pain that sent her to the lavatory many times,
The pain of bringing you to this world,
the world of black men joined by filth,
and of white little things- joined by cleanliness and Godliness.

When you eventually came, you cried.
With your big, blue round eyes, you cried.
It was these hands that held you
even before your mama could
for she was as tired as a dog
when the midwife shouted
that your big head had been seen.
My hands were ready for you
well clasped, and ready for your naked bloody bum.
I used sunlight bar soap and Vaseline petroleum jelly to keep them clean and soft that day,
just for you.
They became clean and white as you – for you.

My hands were not dirty either
when I was sent to the pigsty,
that place of dirt and mud.
Your mama did not mind
In fact she insisted on it
that I should toil among swine
and leave when all was calm.
It was these hands that kept me sane
and kept the dirt away.
The same hands that went in clean
and came out dirty, muddy and smelly.
But you Klein Missus you don't know
How revolting a pig stall is
for when you wallow in the mud you fall,
Onto the stinking poo, you fall – sometimes on your face,
sometimes on them, next to them, with them!
But these hands support my fall in there.
Every time I'm there, they sustain my time,
they become my anchor. The same anchor that supports you as I lift you into the air, so you can feel the cold, sometimes cool and at most times warm air.

You can't be lifted by dirty hands now, can you?

Do you remember Klein Missus?
When Oom Willie was sick?
He could do nothing for himself.
Even going to the toilet was a slog.

Your mama told me to go.
It's a two hour walk but I went anyway
even though I was assigned only to your home.

Your Oom Willie was a dirty old man
His hands were dirty too, like the rest of his body.
He was a piece of junk – if I'm allowed to speak my mind.
He would touch my black ass for fun, for laughs and for pleasure.
My big black ass that was claimed by a strong black man, he would touch.
A scrawny white man whose bum was full of shit, would touch me.
Even as I did not approve, I would still be touched,
for who was I with no rights, no movement and no freedom?

Oom Willie was always soiled.
His white bum soiled and smelly.
The kind of smell that turns a kitchen into a lavatory.
But I couldn't disapprove – for my heart said he's sick, whilst my mind said otherwise.
In confusion my hands approved to do all they could for my upkeep.
My hands, my strength,
if they could talk, blacks would cry.

So with patience of a saint
I would start with a front wipe, a back wipe and then a wipe everywhere.
Wipe and wash him until he was clean, arrogant and horny.
My hands would clean him really good.
Only his heart I couldn't.
For even when he died his heart was dirty.
Like rotting flesh, his contamination couldn't be halted.
It was a seed planted in him by those before him.
"As dirty as Oom Willie", I will say – if I'm allowed to.
"As clean as black hands" – this too I'll say.