My Africa

I cannot write for Africa

my story is

a small stocking story in the winter

behind a swing light

But I can write

Of Bhuti

and Mtusi

and Patrick

of Bhuti,

looking for tracks of strangers

watching, he walks with a stick

waiting with  fire after sunset

waiting for the unwanted,

I am not alone

of Mtusi

walking to his school

not asking a lift

more dignified than a lord

smiling

of Patrick

worrying, wide eyed for us

waiting for my children to lock doors

This is my Africa

a waiting fire on a border fence

waiting for walking tracks

protectorate, unprecedented

guardians of a micro bubble

a candle and a teacup

breakers of the cloud of bone hungry

the gate keeper of the understanding