When they cried freedom, when the sweet
mingling of woodsmoke and jasmine
with dust - grass, granite, antelope
bone - gathered into wrists which turned
light the colour of blood, darkness
a memory of the colour
of blood - when their voices lifted
that song and sent it echoing
across Africa, I knew it.
Sibanda had taught it to me,
polishing the family's shoes,
squatting outside the scullery
door. We both wore khaki trousers
many sizes too big; no shirt,
no shoes. I spat on the toecaps
while he brushed: and while he brushed
we sang: 'Nkosi sikelel'
iAfrika…' over and over
till the birds joined in. August birds.
'… Maluphakanisw' udumo lwayo …' *
It comes back to me, this August,
now that the jasmine is blooming
and the air is stilled by woodsmoke;
how they cried freedom, and how I
knew their song. A lingering chill
pinches Zimbabwean sunsets
into the cheeks of my children
squatting beside me as I write.
It is their song too. I teach it
to them, over and over, till
my tired eyes are pricked with tears
held back, sweet smoke, dust and jasmine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hi John, Very nice piece, and actually I've translated it into Chinese. Are you okay if I submit my translation for a formal publication on a web site? Sorry to ask you this way as you turn off your message. Hope to hear from you, Regards. Yiyan