On Sundays, we all wore our best; young black girls,
empire-waisted,
bows clipped in their kinky hair.
And the touch of my sister’s hair in their hands,
her everydayness,
was their mystery, finer than any hair.
And the Ndebele danced into church, singing,
their song led
by the oldest woman in the tribe,
Even if she was held by both arms, singing,
after church, out
into the dung-heat of the sun.
