Africa, Quintessential:
Top of Form
Bottom of Form
So many people
lining the road,
cycling the road,
wandering the road,
but always looking.
Here women old young,
children,
men with burdens,
loads of sticks,
bundles of leaves,
them all registering
every kind of human expression on their faces:
inquisitive inquiring,
can’t be bothered
just too busy with their intentions,
frightened also,
friendly and smiling with a desire
to connect,
waving,
running alongside the car,
children chanting “Jambo” or “money!”
or scurrying away scared with backs turned
when the camera is pointed at them
to take away their souls,
or they pretend to throw things then laugh,
frown, scowl or look away;
the babies too,
many in rags
one held near a mothers flappybag breasts
for no-one in particular to see;
the grandmothers struggling
to walk in the sub-African sun,
dressed so multi-colourfully
with head scarves and skin of leather
with very white standout-whites-of-eyes,
sometimes suspicious if not cautious;
and the many many men who stare for a care,
they have their own reasons
for making the decision to look,
and enjoy the free novelty of the mini-bus
with the whities
inside looking back at them
for their own entertainment and amusement also;
and the animals too:
so many cows,
every single one with a huge slave lump
in the spine from the yolk I think,
who stood stock still
munching and flailing a tail
in the banana grass
of the sideroad greeneries,
now and again the occasional tethered goat
with the standard goat-expression of bone boredom
not even preoccupation
or focus or much of it at all;
Oh, The Fish!
A great half-swordfish
with a spanning triangular tail fin
which popped out
of one man’s bicycle behind him
as he hurried towards another village;
and the coconut palms and the banana trees
so frequent and foliated,
we get the sighting of two ancient Baobab trees
sourcing their nutrients
from places deep below the surface
of the fertile flats
which beckon you
to notice them
one-after-the-other,
the other huts
grass straw rooves
sitting on walls of straw
or mud
and some brick houses
but most with open doors,
women of house sometimes inside,
or half outside
or idly waiting around,
shuffling about or mending
or scratching at the dirt
with their big round coloured, materialed bums
sticking in the air,
a perfect right-angle formed
by their strong legs,
back-bending to do
a farmer’s job with the soil
or pluck or plant or plough by hand
or notice us go by
or not
in that moment;
and what else?
Well, there were roads like minefields
with holes and swells and mud ponds
and dry rough stony-trap craters
for bumps and avoidance to steer around,
and always someone beside them
not too far away;
and at the end of it
a gorgeous sandy white water of turquoise,
blue beach salty
quite warm to feel and sensuous actually
even sexy to be in as the sun skulked across it,
while before that and after
there were faces faces faces questioning,
searching into yours,
making comments,
just looking blankly, maybe imploring
and gesticulating with it,
making noises of Swahili
such absent-minded lacking concentration movements
of head or arms;
and there were vespas
with only ever boys and men,
and trucks returning with men and women smiling,
alighting onto the ground;
with two police roadblocks
where ‘secret’ money was exchanged
as “punishment” for the crime of being a foreigner
paid for the benefit of a police lunch
or beer or trip to the brothel
or this sort of thing
but we don’t talk about it now,
we just pay and smile and go
and say our name and take our orders
and give the game a go, then go
then move along sir, yes.
