Poetry

On his face you can see that he is getting old,
and he is almost seventy years.
Punctually he is on his post
sweeping my yard with his homemade broom
and with hardened hands he works long hours
in old clothes that has seen better days
and he changes into better clothes
before he goes home on his bicycle.
 
In the twelve years that he has worked for me
I have seen him in deep thoughts many times
and when I ask him about it
he always says that he is speaking with his heart.
 
His mind goes back to his beloved Kwazulu-Natal,
to the mountains and the grass veldt of his youth
and to the innocence of a barefoot child
looking after his father’s herd of cattle.
 
Most of all he misses his family
and tears well up in his eyes
when he talks about the veldt
and the freedom of being a child.
 
He misses his mother’s maize porridge
from a black cast iron pot
and the meat roasted on an open fire,
the stories told around the fire by the elders
and the singing and dancing of the ladies
with their skirts wiggling
and the laughter
that rings out as if you can hear it forever
and the stars that shines like diamonds in the sky
that is spread all over like a giant glistening blanket
and the moon that reflects on the water of the river
as if it’s taking a bath
and the wild animals that were everywhere
when people were free
 
but today he lives in a room with his wife
in a suburb of Springs
but sometimes when he has saved enough money
he goes back home to see
how freedom still looks like.