A Financial Manager In The New South Africa Poem by Gert Strydom

The sun has risen like a large red ripe orange
and I can almost smell its ripeness
on the early morning air
and I am driving my brand new red BMW
with its leather seats,
dark windows, flaring South African flags
and large L-sign,
slowly through the old dilapidated pickups,
the old Jetta’s and ten year old cars
of the white folks
who are going to work
like a herd of cows.

BEE is a really great thing
and gave me the opportunity
to be promoted from filing clerk
to financial manger
and now my cousin
who was formerly a tea lady
is the personnel manager
and although the job seems tough
it doesn’t really matter
how I do it,
as long as I get to work on time
and drive the white minority to perform
and to stand in for me.

Sometimes facts and figures
goes right pass me, but my white deputy
certainly knows his stuff
and at times talks on my behalf,
especially at board meetings
and if he doesn’t buckle up
and toe the line
his job will be mine
to give to another
who bows down
and says yes boss to me.

Just now I will scratch my head,
put my feet on my desk
and ask aloud:
“right where am I now? ”

And when the figures
on the papers in front of me
doesn’t add up
shaking my head
I will remark:
“going nowhere slowly.”

The afternoon tea will indicate
that the working day is almost done
and it’s time to go home
where three wives will welcome me
and like a god I will walk
past the white employees
and stare at one of them
to scare the living daylight out of him
and ask if the assignment he is doing
is completed?

And I will take some files from him
and draw green lines at places
even if I do not comprehend
any of the calculations

and tonight I will shed my suit, shirt and tie
put on my traditional skins
sit in the shade of the old oak tree
at the back of my yard
around a pot of foaming beer
and will hear the voices
of my children and play with them,
have an orgy with all three my wife’s
and now I drink my tea
without spilling any from the cup
and the clock on the wall
tell me that its time to go home.

[References: BEE stands for: Black Economic Empowerment. A riot policeman by Christopher van Wyk.]