In Africa's Night (A Lament)
Death in Africa's night, she's 38
They bear me from hospital grounds
Our home is empty, except for me
A rented shell where loss abounds
I read Psalm Number 121
Memorial closes the Book of Plans
They stand in line for a moment's embrace
She lies under embalming hands
The box with permits of expiration
Weighs in the belly of the plane
We fly over saltlands of Kalahari
I descend into the heartless flame
To the yard for the last time, laid out low
In the rondavel they had thatched for us
Here we laid on our wedding day
Here we come to the terminus
Women sing Laments all night
I fall asleep in the haze of dawn
Her swollen face in the coffin view
Her mother cries, not the child I knew!
The army pitches canvas halls
Mourners pour from the desert towns
Pots of sorghum meal and meat
Warm the nights they huddle around
The dreaded wizards laugh in the bush
Age-cohort girls joke in shebeens
We are beaten, they are waiting for
The burial of imprudent dreams
Trucks leave for the village shores
Their tails of dust rise in the eyes
Of morning's face, falling upon
Late drinkers by the riverside
Red rectangles newly dug
And how this earth drains soft and fine!
The sand so quick, the tears so dry
The crowd surrounds the burial line
The midday breeze lowers its head
The sun is cruel as mourners sing
Her tears burn on my eyes, my skin
The box falls, closing everything
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poem by Frank Bana
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