a policeman who lives in a cell,
Says his job’s like living in hell.
Says he must be heaven sent,
’Cause he’s the only one who knows it’s bent.
Yes, he wishes he could fly
So he could leave and live in the sky.
There’s the old man who sits on the shelf,
Says he’s losing his wealth,
And he could really care about his health,
And he couldn’t really care about his health,
Just wealth . . .
There’s the young boy who sits on the fence,
Says sitting on the fence don’t make no sense,
Says he’s going to have a child by a wife,
Cut the fraction with a knife.
There’s always enough, but no one will explore
The shadow behind the door,
So near and yet so far . . .
As Is Life
The kingfisher plummets into the river
And captures the winding fish.
As is life . . .
The birdwatcher slowly gropes the ground for his binoculars,
Not daring to move his eyes from what he sees.
It could be fear in his eyes, it could be compassion.
His hands begin to get agitated
And so does he.
His eyes cringe as he cautiously looks for his binoculars,
His head turns to his binoculars, and he slowly reaches for them.
And a rustle of wings, a shimmer in the silent air,
The kingfisher in full flight,
Sinks into the silence of the mere.
The birdwatcher cocks his head to the side in an angry but what
Could have been a mellow moment.
As is life . . .
TENDER FINGERS IN A CLENCHED FIST
African Metaphor
You can’t sweep dust under the rug any more.
You can’t keep hiding bodies under the boards of the floor.
You can’t sanction the hearts of an African race.
You can’t hide a man from his very own face.
You can never be a king if you elect yourself the crown.
You cannot perceive the suffering if you’ve never been down.
You’re on the great white colonial ego trip,
But soon you will be penned into your own township.
Your tables of justice will be turned until they fall upon your knees.
Our cries of injustice will drown your pathetic pleas.
You can’t remember the Sharpeville massacre.
Do you remember the exploitation of Namibia?
You can’t remember Mangaliso Sobukwe.
Do you remember the name Azania?
You can’t sweep dust under the rug any more.
You can’t keep hiding bodies under the boards of the floor.
You can’t hear the trickle of blood that will stick your lips together.
You can close the curtains but you can’t hide the weather.
You cannot smell the smoke while it is twisting in the air.
You can’t feel the fire though it is singeing your hair.
You can’t arrest the soul of an African revolutionary.
You can’t meter the reaction of a reactionary.
You cannot hold an African metaphor.
You can’t sweep dust under the rug any more.
You can’t keep hiding bodies under the boards of the floor.
Your graves . . . your graves are already being dug by the gardeners of my country.
Your coffins are cut to measure by my sisters of carpentry.
If you cannot feel the illness then you’ll never find the cure,
And you’ll never be prepared for the African metaphor.
When mother delved the kitchen knife into the heart of the white beast
She closed her eyes tightly in the ecstasy of release.
You will feel the flames of vengeance in the deep heat of the night,
And the stench of scorching flesh will make you wish you’d seen the light.
You will hear the warrior cry, bang fiercely on your door.
You will see the horrifying death-defying anger of the African metaphor.
You can’t sweep dust under the rug any more.
You can’t keep hiding bodies under the boards of the floor.
Listening
Listening, and we’re listening
To the ones who scream,
Hidden by the pounding sounds of the traffic.
We’re listening
To the Blackness in the dream,
Hidden by the screams of this nightmare.
And it’s getting louder.
People, we’re getting louder.
People, we’re turning round,
