write this, effable and ineffable both

write this

emmer effer

a pretend genius broadsuction

some days are better than none

the message board

African days, African nights

Cat Fenton

First Impressions

Everything is dusty red and succulent green.

The road is mostly empty,

of cars at least-

streams of Africans snake down the sides

In all forms of dress;

School pupils in uniforms traditional ladies in chitenjie businessmen in suits

Ragged staring children and baggy jeaned hip hop youths in woollen hats.

Hefting sacks of maize, school books, bags or babies.

Terracotta mud slashes tracks through green valleys

Burnt amber houses planted in lush jungle.

My commute

At first I feared

my walk to work-

a path cut through local huts

and village life;

to the safety of the big white house.

Clucking scattering chickens

Mangy dogs sniffing at rubbish

scruffy wide eyed offspring

playing in the red mud

beside fluttering rags that mark the walls of outhouses:

I saw only chaos.

It took a while for order to emerge

in my untrained eye.

Neat brick houses swept out daily

Goat pens and chicken coops

Nsema stirred on bright flames

Favours paid and then returned

Neighbours helped and rubbish burned.

I still don’t understand how this community works

but I understand that it is one.

And smile as I walk past the chattering women

to my empty house on the hill.

African Nights

In time, they knew

they would tire

of smooth slippery play

rubbery dolphin-like frolics

rocking in salty pleasure

amongst the waves

erratically washing over them;

but not yet.

They met in a bar

Where else

Two lonely happy wanderers

in a brief beery oasis.

A glimpsed understanding

as blue eyes meet

over a friendly handshake.

Hours pass and the music gets louder

the lights lower

local dancers gyrate gracefully

and some mzungo thrash gamely in imitation.

They retire with Greens to a corner,

concrete benching softened by

piles of plump cushions.

They talk about this and that

while he calmly takes her hand.

Two ships on self-set routes

meeting gratefully in the African night.

Is it stretching this ocean-going metaphor to say that they

compared navigational data:

stories of storms weathered and possible dangers ahead,

along with suggested delights?

Both taking solace in stories shared-

the mutual friend lost on the road

(to a speeding car);

Other tragedies and comedies they know.

And so to bed

inevitably

to the shuffling and readjusting

of bodies meeting for the first time

until a satisfactory alliance is established.

Later they escape the stifling tent-

plunge into the still, cool lake.

A swim out to the rising sun

pinky golden rays of dawn

fingering mountains on the eastern shore

they smile sleekly at each other.

Then sleeping naked on the grass

holding hands, still.

One secret weekend

sweet moments in the bay

lying in each other’s arms

then moving on-

she north and he south.

Sailing apart after one last kiss.

Death

Gong.

Malaria

HIV

‘Seventeen killed in minibus head on collision’

complications in childbirth

crocodiles snakes and tsetse fly

Pneumonia

Leprosy

(yes, still)

Gong.

Every week a funeral

A reminder for the whole village.

It’s not that I’ve become morbid-

just that death is a fact of life here,

in a way that it never was in Britain.

I want to live to a hundred

and have armfuls of children

travel until I am old and weary-

but I know that there are little girls

here, who will not live to be twenty.

coming Out

Then

“They’ll always want to know your football team and church-

just pick two names and stick with that- it keeps life easy”

‘They’ did ask

“Arsenal and church of Scotland”

I lied smoothly

Newest member of Livingstone’s tribe-

submitted even to a Sunday service

writhing under the worship of ancient lies.

A country where god is still almighty

bows under corruption chauvinism and poverty.

Now

Cathy did you go to church this morning?

I don’t go to church.

Why not?

I am not religious.

Then you are against God?

I am not against him I just don’t believe in him.

God is a figment of a collective imagination.

(I knew that when I was six years old)

Here I Am

I always read colonial novels

with doubtful enjoyment.

Never wanted to be

one of those writers who had lived in Africa-

Knew it stayed in your blood from then on

like dormant malarial invaders

tucked away in your liver

dancing through life with you;

or as double-drop acid,

taken casually

years ago

subtly alters a perception for a lifetime.

I saw a vague outline of dry land and sadness

and dreamt instead of Asia and the Americas.

but here I am

blown over on a life led by chance

and job offers;

To find that Africa is indeed another drug

one of staggering highs and lows

that pounds your heart- stimulates- numbs and confuses

whirls you around and lets you down and refuses

ever to be pinned down, understood

or ignored.

Malawi

Tattoed on my heart.

writeThis.com, pretendgenius.com, cafehopeless.com and author.