Botswana

School boys run in their Toughees and conjure up

Clouds of dust on the blistering sun-baked earth.

Girls gossip in a language I cannot understand.

Grandmothers sip Mageu as they point at the

Golden grass patches in the horizon.

Old men gather around rusty, sizzling half drum braai stands

And drool over the meat, the opaque beer and girls in

Spray on Levis, wielding parasols and cheap red lipstick.

The smell of boiled free range chicken and mabele porridge

Holds me captive in the complaining bus as we

Wait for the herd of emaciated goats to finish insulting

Our bus driver.

I close my eyes and take all these sounds in to be

Gently woken by a tinny Tracy Chapman wailing about a revolution.

Somehow, there is something magical about Botswana,

Home of the Pula, Thebe and the Kalahari.

It makes me proud to be here,

Complaining about the heat and the loud conversations

That bounce all around the bus as all the people tell

Loud stories and share in their humanness.

Deep down I celebrate its uniqueness and spirit.

Frank Malaba™ © 2012