Statistics

‘If another person says, “No vacancies”,
I’ll shoot his mouth out,’ said my brother.
‘Hush,’ said I with irritated anger
And so we squabbled.

All day we had gone from door to door
Waving our envelopes weighted by qualifications
But what with nepotism
We watched it
The posh; the rich
(Maybe tomorrow I should slit my skirt)
And the glittering slide out of big cars
And take our positions in offices
We were numbed by guilt
Here we were reaping the fruit of our parents’ poverty
So whilst they took our jobs
To earn present-buying cash
We rolled on the grass at flyover junction
And attacked our lunch, ‘skondamoyo’
My brother’s eyes regarded me
And I read him say,
‘How sweet the taste of mahewu’
We shared from a plastic bag
That had costs us 10c
And a day’s busfares.
Sometimes we thought to give up
Then we thought of our mother back in Chirambahuyo selling vegetables
And we met the eye of the capitalist
And damned civilisation
And solemnly bowed when he again said,
‘No vacancies’.