A Poem
By Tshepo Molefe
Do you remember those Sunday Mornings?
Where Ntate Thuso was your alarm clock
And waking up meant you have 21 hours and 11 minutes to finish your Monday Morning homework?
Do you remember those Sunday Afternoons?
When the crescendos in Marvin Gaye’s songs sang you to irritation
While each key would unlock a bit of your mother’s smile
As she cooks herself into your Sunday kos?
I too remember those Sunday afternoons
When Mum used to knit all her dreams
Into those puffy jackets that made us the envy of everyone kid when winter came.
I would like to think it’s her love and Sade’s cadence that kept us warm
Every Sunday afternoon, she would listen to Eddie Zondi’s sermons.
Kem would revive her fading hope in any man having enough testosterone
To hold handle all her woman.
On some Sundays, Jill Scott had to visit her ears
To remind her that her life too is golden
I hated those Sunday afternoons
When Ma’s milk was half spilled
The doctors said her lactose was past its expiring date
And hers was dawning
The only thing that kept Ma’s spirit high
Was Lionel Richie’s sweet melody
He and Marvin always had keys to unlock Ma’s smile
I was helpless in those Sunday mornings
When Jimmy Dludlu’s guitar chords strummed courage into my backbone
The reaper sang too many lullabies in that ward
The smell testified to the traffic heaven got from that place
I’ll never forget Ma’s breath coming to its final diminuendo
“Embody me in your pages
“Let me live through your voice
“Let your work be my resurrection and your salvation.”
Ma
Paper is too inanimate an object to contain you
Your soul needs flesh
So I sacrifice my left hand
To hold all of your wonder.
If that isn’t enough
Will resting on my tongue suffice?
Her wake sounded like Death trying to understand the living’s resilience
Nina’s humming is responsible for that
She sang us back to comfort
Reminding us that Ma’s smile could still be heard in our heart beat
I still go through Sunday afternoons
Where Marvin’s orphaned notes would sing Ma’s memory back to life
Such sweet sounds hurt Dad a bit too much
What other choice does he have except to conduct Metro FM back to silence
As he cooks himself into our Sunday kos?
