The Outsiders
The white Mercedes roared and rattled along the gravel road, sending a cloud of white dust billowing out to settle in a white shroud over the roadside vegetation. Whites.
The children, laughing with bright smiles creasing dark faces, were clambering like monkeys over the gate and were perching on the fencepoles. Blacks.
The car slowed as it neared the gate, uncertain. Then, reassured by the signboard, purred to an idle. “Why don’t those blacks open the bloody gate, or do I have to?”
Frozen on their fencepoles, the children were undecided. Then instinct leapt them from their perches. A faded handdown shirt from the baas and tattered shorts was about the limit of their attire. The pale soles of their feet flashed as they raced to have the honour of opening the gate.
Hands, fumbling excitedly at the wire latch, then swinging the gate open and cupping to receive the reward. A hand, extending gingerly from an open window, holding a shiny bronze coin. Faces, anticipating, subservient, awed?
Falsely cheerful, “Hello.”
Mumbled, “Molo, Missus.”
The black child proudly showed the shiny cent piece to his peers. The outsiders had passed.
ubuntuboetie 
I remember we used to call them ‘piekeniens’ and throw sweets down on the sand as we sped through the gate that had been opened. Cringe.