Colonial Resist
I tell you I don't belong here, and you ask,
well, where do you belong?
And I pause... slightly panicked and unsure of what I'm about to say...
Take me home, where I am meant to be, where the wind blows slower, and there is a never—
ending goer to and fro to fetch the water, in a bore hole 100 feet under.
The place of 10, 20, 30, 40, 50 acres of green land, slightly tainted to a washed yellow and
where the world's pace becomes like sand.
A gentle tickle under your feet, sending you into a deep-set scene of peace, a tranquille
savanna, so smooth doused in serenity.
Take me home where I am meant to be, where the stars speak 1000 words, leaving me with
no need to talk, move or walk, but to simply wonder how can such beauty be left
uncovered.
Naked and bare, accompanied by no awkward airy light glares or unorthodox snares,
simple naked beauty placed millions of miles away equating to every speck of sand on the
land, where the world is in your hands.
And when the wind blows my nose catches the burning scent of ash and my tongue can
taste the gritty sand, I will ask, can you please take me back to the motherland.
Where my great grandmother sew seed and my grandmother bore fruit for my mother.
Where my mother planted seeds to grow trees next to one another.
And I’ll sing mother let us dance before the star dust laced dusk and dawn, amongst the
pretty pool of wishes, in the melting pot of wonders.
Mother let us dance, and do not let your hips stand still at the hum of the birds, or the beat
of the drum, let your body mirror the sky, forever changing from one colour to another, one
shape to the next.
As the sky births a baby twice a day, one yellow, one grey, you too do the same, bearing
children, releasing light into the day.
And I’ll sing, mother never stop dancing, run at the rhythm pumping in your chest, let your
lips rejoice in gladness, be alive, be the brightness.
Take me to the place where my roots lay, let me see the avocado trees and mango seeds
scattered across the plot, where maize awaits for me.
Fresh eggs and sunsets, toast and tea, take me where my soul yearns to eat.
Let me show my grandmother what her seed produced, a fruit both sweet and tangy,
likened to the oranges in her back garden trees.
A physical representation of our never-ending roots in mirrored nations and mango leaves.
Let me show her the intelligence her seed bore, an intelligence she never got to discover.
And when you ask me where I want to plant my seed, I'll say, take me home where I am
meant to be.
Where victory reigns and great ruins fell, take me where victory falls, where the crushing
sound of millions of dreams are hidden, behind warm stones and rainbowed walls.
Where the sand is likened to time, so rich, so full, take me to the place where money
cannot buy the land.
Where the riches cannot equate to any earthly grand, take me to the place where the wind
blows slower.
To where there is a never-ending goer to and fro, to fetch the victorious water, take me
home.
Where. I. Am. Meant. To... Be.
Where unearthly figures watch over the farmland, cultured to grow, germinate and regulate
circular production of seed to bare fruit of the land.
And once my seed has been planted and left to grow, they too will ask, where do we plant
our seed also, and I'll say,
sew it where the wind blows so slow,
where the time is likened to sand, a fine line,
so easily scattered from land to land,
where the sunset serenades the stars,
where the grass equated to no earthly grand,
plant it next to the orange tree,
for the coming and growing of water fetched from 100 feet under,
sew your seed where there are victorious falls and great ruins,
sew your seed exactly where it is meant to be,
sew your seed in the motherland,
a place belonging to both you and me…
After a long pause, Zimbabwe I say.
Zimbabwe.
by Haliette Mukandatsamba