Old Mrs Masuku’s a mealie cob vendor
Down at the gates of the new football ground,
(Order by phone, I’ll give you her number) ,
Where customers come and stand all around
Near the rusty old drum fired up daily at dawn,
Some coming to buy, some just to keep warm.
Each pip must, she says, leave sweet milk on her nail
When bought from the market not one hour before
And pressed with her thumb, not dented or stale.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem