My birth, I’m told,
was not awaited with great anticipation;
born on my mother’s return
from a Friday-night dance,
the last thing on her mind
being rushed to a clinic
at the eleventh hour;
giving birth to
this round cheeked baby girl
adding to an existing two:
she knew exactly what she was in for.

My father was disappointed, I’m told
he was sure that this time
it would be a boy
to make him proud and continue his name
and so I carried this eternal shame
of being born without a penis
unable to continue my father’s history,
or extend our history.

I went to school
a dark-skinned little girl;
a great handicap
during the eighties
with the Apartheid machine slugging along,
reminding me just how undesirable,
unremarkable,
unlovable,
inexplicitly coloured I am;
it seemed each year of existence
merely adding to my shame.

Unable to continue my father’s name,
I got rid of it
as soon as I could,
opting for a delicious sounding name
which was never my own;
I just borrowed it in holy matrimony
which didn’t last,
but I decided to keep it all the same:
I still liked its sound!

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