This little boy wants me to give him
something his rich parents cannot give him.
He stands outside my door
at six every morning and every evening.
Every day since I came to live here three months ago.
And I, locked inside my room, wondering
what do you give the children of rich parents
who have everything you don't have?


He is always there outside my door at six
when his father drives up in his shiny black Benz
with those things he knows little boys
love to suck and chew and blow out in balloons.
Always there outside my locked door
when his very rich father drives up
in his shiny black Benz and toots the car horn
and waits to see his little boy running
for what he knows daddy has brought him
but won't give him unless he claps his hands
and says "Thank you, father."
But it seems now the little boy has got tired
of sucking and chewing little childish bubbly things;
seems he wants to get his teeth
into something more solid,
something more - substantial.
So he comes and hangs outside my door
and waits for me to hear his impatient cough
and footshuffle; to come out and give him
something that his rich father doesn't seem to realise
he now needs.
And I, behind my locked door, thinking desperately:
what do you give little sons of rich parents
who have everything that you don't have?
Finally I have to open the door: "Want to learn
the twist?"
"No. Is it some kind of cane or whip or belt?"
"No, it goes something like this. Watch me now,
watch me!"
And since then, this little boy comes to my place
every day to learn that the twist isn't a kind of
cane, or whip or belt, nor shumba - a kind of
growling monster - crouching in some thicket
ready to spring and pounce on little rich boys,
nor is it all precious breakable china
and sparkling glass that all rich people drink
from