I am from needle and thread,
From extra pieces of cloth and the running stitch.
I’m from sliding down the stairs like a penguin,
“Thumping” the whole way down!
I’m from flour-covered clothes, sneaking cookie dough,
and the aroma of cinnamon.
I’m from hearing, “I love you,” “Clean up your mess,” and “Don’t touch that!”
I am from cleaning the mud from under my nails,
From running around with wings,
hoping one day I would be able to fly!
I am from suitcases, the constant whirring of engines,
and soaring above the clouds for so long that time vanishes.
I’m from the city of red brick houses with brown shingles and eggshell fences.
The city of Afrikaans and Zulu,
where the Atlantic and Indian Ocean hold hands.
I am from the country of spices, zooming around in auto rickshaws,