By Jill Abram
The sweetest naartjies I ever ate
were bought on the roadside
from a barefoot boy in tatty shorts
and a T shirt with a hole below Man U.
He looked younger than me at ten –
I couldn’t believe he’d seen my home team
even though I’d flown eighteen hours
to where he and my Dad were born.
He took Dad’s coin with both hands
and a smile which lifted his eyes.
He waved at me as we drove away slowly
so our wheels didn’t spit dust over him.
Whenever I peel a tangerine I see him.
I let juice linger in my mouth while
I consider the Afrikaans word I never heard
in England, except in our house.