I cannot write for Africa
my story is
a small stocking story in the winter
behind a swing light
But I can write
Of Buthi
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 for 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 gatekeeper of the understanding