I grew up being told what I was
before I even knew who I was.

"Coloured."
Like that answers the question.
Like that explains
everything-
and nothing-
all at once.

My people?
We got history in our blood
and displacement in our bones.
We know how to live between things-
between languages,
between expectations,
between the cracks
of a country
that still doesn’t know where to place us
unless it’s behind something.

I’ve been side-eyed in boardrooms
and praised for “speaking well”
in the same breath.
I’ve seen jobs
go to people who look like me
but sound more digestible.
I’ve learned how to soften my voice
just to be heard.
Folded parts of myself
so I can fit in
rooms built
without me in mind.

Racism doesn’t always shout.
Sometimes it smiles.
Sometimes it’s HR in heels.
Sometimes it wears melanin
and still looks at me sideways.
Says I’m “not Black enough,
not White enough.”
Says I should pick a side.

Pfft!
As if my whole body
ain’t a side they never counted.

We were always the ones
left out of the conversation
but expected to carry the weight.
To make do.
To make peace.
To make ourselves smaller
and grateful.

But I’m not here for their categories.
I’m not here to be a quota
or a case study.
I’m not here to be
easily digested.

I come from a place
where grief tastes like curry
and laughter brightens rooms
Eskom can’t.
Where aunties speak prophecy
from the stoeps,
and children grow up learning
to read the mood
of a country
that still hasn’t said sorry.

I’m not confused.
I’m complete.
I’m not in-between.
I’m inherited.

I’m not your diversity hire.
I’m the storm-
and the silence before it.

So no-
I won’t tick your box.
I’ll burn it.
Then write my name
in the ash,
so you never forget
that I was here.

And I am still-
here.