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When someone asks for a memory
of Africa, I always remember
those dusty hours spent outside
Katie’s khaya under the Mopani…
Quiet melodious chattering,
the smell of sunshine and family.
Bright white sudza plops in the pot
as bundu sticks crackle with fire …
Small stools where we crouched
in total concentration on a square
of a dozen small indents for stones,
scratched out of Africa’s skin.
Today Eddie talks of roots and wings,
of flights of fear or stoic stance.
The holes left by those who uproot
and the bravery of those who stay.
I visualize a map of Zimbabwe
systematically marked with flights.
Is this just another game of 'Stones'
where only one man gets a turn?
Frances Macaulay Forde
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