From Katlehong I come
by train not by taxi –
a taxi to Dukathole stops
anytime, anywhere, anyhow.
A train to Dukathole.

I’m an alien;
beings are made of dust,
smoke, noise here.

Planet Dukathole has an ear
of sound. Ghetto-blasters
compete with one another
blaring smoky hits,
blaring away poverty.
All is kwaito.
No kwasa-kwasa,
no mbaqanga,
no reggae and no
jazz.

I’m an alien,
children here have a group soul
and compound eyes.

They see all
at once – the alien,
dusty games,
smoky dances,
passers-by,
gangsters’ cars
zipping along.

Where is the house . . . ?
Even Phillip Tobias, cannot
dirt-read us.

I’m an alien here,
I can’t ask anyone.

“Eita Blazah!”
Their greetings
followed by whistles.

I don’t look back.

“For Reclamation, Blazah?”

Dusty footsteps; white noises.