Imbewu
You carved the face of Qamata into the husk of an unsuspecting tree.
And for days to come, you bowed before it and prayed.
You do so day after day after day after day.
Until the air is spent,
and hallowed.
Then, one day, they come—
skin unaccustomed to the sun.
A single swing, and they fell him. He does not bleed.
They tell you that you cannot bend here; that you cannot return
to your cathedral in the trees.
Soon, you are swayed by the whisperings
of wine-soaked hymnals; sown—
from the husk of he who fell before. Soon,
you are spurred to prayer with homilies, and gunpowder—
clothed in their robes; washed
in the blood.
But many generations later, your descendants are drawn
to the sheer majesty of an oak,
resting, at last, in its forgiving, everlasting shade.
(In the End You Called Me Mother)
She will not eat anything
unless I make it.
Custard. The way she used to.
Bent double over the stove
for hours. Her body curved,
aged, laboring;
like a parenthesis, holding.
And here I am, atop the landing,
atop years and years of rubble;
withstanding.
Learning to give the body over
to the bend, to hold
what I cannot mend.
Here I am, stirring this life-giving
liquid. With each turn,
it clarifies. With each turn,
it thickens.
Transfer it. Wait for it to cool.
This act, this gentle tradition,
bringing us all the way back.
When I bring it to her,
she looks up and says, “Mother.”
About the Author:
Weaned on iintsomi zikaMamCirha namarhewu, Simphiwe Mpho Zondani is a poet, essayist and multimodal storyteller born, bred, and buttered in the Eastern Cape of South Africa. Based in the windswept city of Gqeberha, he moonlights as a Senior lecturer on Media, Journalism, and Research. His work has appeared in publications such as Kalahari Review. Three of his poems were longlisted and anthologised for the Sol Plaatje European Union Award. He is currently working on his debut poetry collection.
Feature image by Daniel Salcius on Unsplash