Author: Thobeka Nzimande, Childhood & Family, Identity, Poetry


When the wind hits my skin,
it reminds me I’m alive.
When I exhale
and inhale,
I feel my heart
push against my chest.

During the day, I hear –
cars hooting,
children screaming,
the sound of footsteps hitting the ground,
the voice of a man growling in complaint,
and a woman laughing at the top of her lungs,
only to convince another that she is okay,
and her family affairs are in order.

With the smell of a cooking pot blending,
with a disturbing unfamiliar smell,
I find myself trying to figure out
what this other strange smell could be.
All this is none of my business,
but the wind still blows it my way.


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