When I grow up I want a job That doesn’t need Arithmetic I don’t mind working really hard But mathematics makes me sick. I’ve thought of jobs that I could do Without a calculator. That rules out being a pilot An engineer, or an educator. There are tycoons and celebrities, Soccer players and politicians Making loads of money and they aren’t All amateur mathematicians. But then I thought that even if You’re rich, you must be able To add up what you earn and spend So you need to know your tables. The only solution I can see Is to study to get to the top Then pay someone to…

I like to ask my mother ‘Why?’ And ‘How?’ and ‘When?’ and ‘What?’ Sometimes she says she doesn’t know Or else that she forgot. I say there’s no excuse for that You can find out, I bet If it’s not already in your head It’s on the Internet! I wanted to know how many germs There were on planet earth (It’s 10 to the power of 30 A nonillion, for what that’s worth) I thought that it was very cool To have that kind of fact I told it to my friends at school To see how they’d react. And then I thought I’d like to know What is the…

It’s my job to wash the dishes It isn’t very nice My sister has to scrape the plates And always leaves some rice. I ran the water very hot And swished the soap around But when I dipped my hand inside This is what I found: Some lumps of fat and melted cheese Some lentils, brown and dried A piece of fish with bone and skin And onions, deeply fried My fingers squelched in all the mess I scooped out handfuls of it My sister laughed and walked away While I tried not to vomit. There’s no escaping from this task No point in feeling sick There is no room…

poetry

Max sat on the side of the road In the dark, in the rain The neighbour said he was a naughty boy He ran away from home He sniffed glue He stole shoes I don’t know if it was true This is what I saw: Max smiled when my mother said ‘Sleep here tonight.’ He ate his pasta without looking up He danced in the mirror in my pyjamas. 2017 Photo description: A pastel crayon sketch of a boy with curly brown hair, wearing a red top and brown trousers, sitting with his head bowed down. izithakazelo is the Zulu word for family praise names, which are used in many…

My family comes from far and wide We’re two parts Zulu And Swedish – on one side. My Mother has some Scottish blood My Dad is part Mauritian. One grandpa was a missionary, Another a magician Some ancestors are from the South And others from the West. It’s very hard to label me That’s what I like the best. My English roots are holding up A complicated tree With mum and dad, my mother’s clan, My two sisters and me. There are first and second cousins, Aunts and uncles, some are ‘great’. I never really understand The way we all relate. Some are stepsons, some half-sisters, Some are cousins ‘twice-removed’.…

There is a boy Who looks like me And takes my place at school. The teachers say He works so hard At breaking every rule. His tie is off His shirt is out His socks are not correct. The teachers say To dress that way Just shows his disrespect. His homework book When it appears Might as well be in Chinese. The teachers say He writes like that In order to displease. When at my desk He looks about From bird to cloud to tree. The teachers say His laziness Is quite extraordinary. It makes me sick To go to class Each day and feel afraid Because the boy Who…

Well hello, big red shongololo You’ve been there so longololo! Curled upon a stone, so still Are you asleep, or dead, or ill? I think I’ll poke you with a stick It will not hurt, I will be quick Of course, if you should move, I’ll yell And drop you on the sand as well I do not mean to harm or kill I just want to know how you keep still You have so many more legs than me At least two hundred, maybe three My legs can’t rest so longololo How do you do it, shongololo? 2013 Photo description: A pastel drawing of a red shongololo curled up…