Beyond The Bush Poem by Aida Santos

1
Beyond the bush
memories fly
across the furrowed forehead
of an ex-exile.
It is almost spring
at the limestone shore
of Cape Town.

“... and I saw through
the bush, village lights
in the night
laughter escaping
from well-lit homes
and I wondered
why they were up, the night
is full of danger
but something stirred, I
touched the joy
inside me, something burned...”

“... I hadn’t seen children
for a long time, and women, too
once there was a child
and I cradled her in my arms
suddenly, I realized
what life is all about.”

2
Beyond the bush, my friend
and comrade, life is much more complex
than firing a gun
or paratrooping to bomb
the enemy’s headquarters.
Your life is held at bay
frozen by a command:
“time for negotiations,
the armed struggle is suspended.”
And I wonder,
how does a soldier re-shape
life beyond the bush?

3
Beyond the bush
the options are linear
and traditional: find a woman,
get her pregnant
marry her, and in your case,
take care of a sick father,
look after a younger brother
attend clandestine meetings
feel unfrozen in the midst
of a cycle of pained
hopelessness, beyond the bush.

4
Comrade, the revolution goes on
steadfast in its aim,
and liberation must go on
in our daily lives.
But I still ask:
have you taken time
to catch a lost childhood,
to feel other people
as people, not only as comrades
in arms, have you mended
your tattered soul
beyond the bush?

5
“I don’t own myself
the revolution owns me
as it did.”
I ask, can the revolution
own a man
who does not own himself?
“Freedom is what I fight for,
I am not free to choose
the life I lead, I do not own
my time, time owns me.”
I ask, once more,
how can you fight for freedom
when you are not free
beyond the bush?

6
Grasping at one intoxicated afternooon
you carefully began to lay out your life,
jigsawed, screening out details
censoring pain.
You said, you have learned
not to trust anyone.
Beyond the bush
you suggest,
no one is a real friend
who can care for you,
like your mother who perished
without saying goodbye.
Cynicism, my friend, kills
like our enemies
beyond the bush.

7
We shared the mosaic of your life
the puzzle incomplete
an aborted friendship.
Decidedly you fled
the questions I posed
because these questions
are the same ones you ask,
and you are afraid
of your own answers,
beyond the bush.