By Joshua Nkwana
there are open skies at home
unlike the packed streets of the city.
morning sunset comes naked
never to hide across tall buildings
and blurry smoke from industries.
at the mountain
the sun cuts a sharp eye
warming the whole village;
trees whisper through appetizing leaves,
shadows mirrored on the ground
breathing through its dancing moves
for they long gone with the night.
elders would warn the children
not to ever let komorebi
brighten their bedrooms
while they’re still hiding heads behind the blankets
they would tell of the curses
they’ll wear in adulthood;
of having soft hands
and inability to feed the family.
women would be found
in the hearts of the bush and mountains
carrying prism-like rope wrapped firewood pack
above their heads,
on the other hand –
a plastic of morogo
in approach of komorebi
on the streets of the village.
while men would be found
surrounded by dogs
cutting the centre of the forest
hunting for rabbits and springboks,
their pockets filled with rounded tiny stones
whilst targeting for birds
with direkere in their hands,
a spear slightly crossed on their back for attack –
they’re known for having too many hands
for sweeping hunger pains away at home.