This season is for the baobabs.
Baobabs are princes of height.
Their swollen feet command
A whole empire under earth.
Above the baobabs,
Seagulls dive in and out of brackish waters.
They stare at us with country-bred eyes.
They stare at us like Serere fishermen from Joal.
The sun radiates above splinter boughs.
This is a season of desolate laughters.
Very little warm water has fallen
To comfort our souls.
Very little water has fallen
On palm fronds to support
The throat of crows.
Rains have signed a contract of neglect
With our landscape. Rains have signed a contract of neglect.
Our soils are bare, without grass or shrubs,
Without weeds or creepers. Our inheritance
Has suddenly turned into
The restless despair of the camel’s fate.
Only the baobabs stride majestically
In our landscape; their octopus branches
Cling to some ancient hope.
We sweat till our bodies shrivel like bonga fish.
We sweat to cool off our body fires.
Sweat is catharsis for us.
God pours down cold water from the inside.
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