We said ja for yes,
takkies for trainers,
just now when we meant later on.
We’d tell a dog to voetsek.
Cry eina for ow.

We binged on koeksisters,
gnawed on biltong,
hitched rides to the koppies
in the backs of bakkies.

We ate sarmies and naartjies,
crunched our packets
of snoek-flavoured chips
in the bioscope.

We bought smokes
not cigarettes,
said stompies for butts,
sat on the stoep and skinnered.

We drank dumpies;
put meat on the braai.
We were often in a dwaal.

We said border
whichever border it was
when our guys
were sent to war.

We waited for them
and when they came back
said yes when they wanted to graunch.

We shimmied close
as they opened their albums
and said, “These are the men
that we killed.”

We looked at those bodies
and shivered
as if we had eaten
a vrot avocado
or stepped on a shongololo.
We said nothing at all.

(First published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal: a collection of vignettesfrom across the globe, November 2017)

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