I'm standing here by the road long time, yesterday, day before, today. Not the same road but it's the same — hot, hot hke today. When they turn off to where they're going, I must get out again, wait again. Some of them they just pretend there's nobody there, they don't want to see nobody. Even go a bit faster, ja. Then they past, and I'm waiting. I combed my hair; I don't want to look like a skolly. Don't smile because they think you being too friendly, you think you good as them. They go and they go. Some's got the baby's napkin hanging over the back window to keep out this sun. Some's not going on holiday with their kids but is alone; all alone in a big car. But they'll never stop, the whites, if they alone. Never. Because these skollies and that kind've spoilt it all for us, sticking a gun in the driver's neck, stealing his money, beating him up and taking the car. Even killing him. So it's buggered up for us. No white wants some guy sitting behind his head. And the blacks — when they stop for you, they ask for money. They want you must pay, like for a taxi! The blacks!
Gordimer, Nadine, What were you dreaming?, Kunapipi, 7(2), 1985.