Killing

by Thabo Jijana

As for me, I had taken the forefeet,

hands as fetters about the hooves

—not to say the doe could object

from where she rested

flat on her back,

                legs spread apart,

her own angora pelt

a foam mattress.

Cousin Wele had one knee on the floor

beside the gaping abdomen,

scooping the entrails

                  onto a metal washbasin. 

Somewhere about the kraal, I heard Papa

call out my name. Said to bring a cooking pot

for the offal. ‘Now.’

My legs felt numb. ‘And stop

              being so slow.’

I walked out, then I walked back in

to find Uncle Duma chopping the body

with a machete,

and I saw that it was hard work.

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Thabo Jijana, whose work is informed by his rural upbringing in eastern South Africa, is a journalist by trade. He lives in Port Elizabeth, on the Eastern Cape Province.