We have talked and passed each other by,
But yet to have a formal greeting
I am the grandchild, the child of the postcolonial generation!
All grown up, all by myself.
We won’t touch on my father and mother.
Funny we should meet here though…on your playground, with your rules.
It’s fitting that we should be watching your children on the swings,
Me and you standing here, hands clasped behind our backs,
Yes, I do speak eloquently! Never-mind that scar, it shouldn’t be a problem.
Don’t look so uneasy, I’m not here to destroy you.
Have a sit. Look me in the eye.
That’s a good idea, let us appeal to the dead and bring them to the table.
Let us talk to my dead as well.
Look at the time, my brother and sister will be waiting for me.
He is posted at the Corrections Centre and Studies at your University, She lives at Social Services and eats at the Church on Smith and Mill, He works at the Reserve and she frequents Immigration, we thought we were strangers, connected only by systems and institutions, until it was clear that I am the child, we are the grandchildren of the postcolonial generation. All grown up. All by ourselves.
You have a strange look in your eye, you must be remembering,
and my father.
Well, same time tomorrow!