Eyes of my village town

the village town rushed to meet me.

In;

a rushed, round high whirl wind.

the folks call it a whistle.

The dust handed me the childhood memories

wrapped in a newspaper spread

the one the president calls  a meat wrapper.

After shaking hands with the dust

and wiping out some of it that hung on my eyebrows

I saw Juma.

Juma is always seated at the naked foundation stone

On the first turn of the right.

He was seated here in March 1996 when I went home

For my first midterm break in high school

In 2002 during the rainbow elections

and in 2015 when we buried the last ancestor.

Always say hi to Juma, that’s the law.

Hand Juma a twenty bob bill, that’s the law.

Let Juma carry your bag, that’s the law.

Don’t call Juma over, walk to his sitting point. It’s the code.

From where Juma sitteth,

I could see the thigh of the town

To a point where it gave up to two beaten paths

Looking like legs of a malnourished child.

The eyes of the village stay in the tired shops.

The eyes are taken out every time a native stranger

Arrives from the city. The eyes are like camera lenses

They capture, at first shot;

The colour of shoes

The car number plate

And the dress of the lady on your side.

These eyes will see you till the day you will come -

Hearsed.