Magwinya Woman

She wakes up before dawn. Mounts her cardbox cubicle on the pavement at a street corner. It is chilly and windy. Without delay she pours cooking oil into the aluminum container perched on a three-legged stand under which there are popping flames of fire. In the yellow bowl she stirs the flour with vigour . The fire is warming her up. With her hands she squeezes the flour into fist-sized lumps and drowns them into the blistering oil . Over a short space of time the blazing oil turns the floury swellings into brown round buns commonly known as magwinyas. With her fork she pierces each baked brown roll and shrugs it off into another vessel. She yawns. The heat is soothing. It is coaxing. She has to sell these chignons to eke out a living. A single parent with four dependents. Like a thief something sweeps her away. Siesta says sister let us go… Her mouth is agape, there is a cascade of saliva going down her chin , down where lies her vessel. The sun’s rays are peeping. Her customers of school children and factory workers halt and scream, “wow!”…and proceed.