An African Experience (In Reply To Agostinho Neto) Poem by Gert Strydom

That night it looked as if
the whole of the horizon was ablaze,
men were beating the fire throwing huge shadows
waving with arms outstretched
with the acrid smell of burning palms trees
filling the night air
and the fire was still spreading.

A row of Bailundu were carrying their possessions
were already fleeing, running away
as if they could outrun the blaze,
chased on by a strong wind
the kind of thing setting the hearts,
the minds of men alight,
taking possession of everything
and raising fear in non-believers
of party politics of freedom
by force, by the barrel of the gun

and even the coloured girl
reddening her face, using rouge
smiling at the mirror
felt the prickles of fear
going up and down her spine
thinking that maybe she wasn’t black enough
but let the though go
as her lovely body had proofed enough
its value up to now

and the sleepless man, thinking about eating utensils,
the care of his whole family
got out of bed and watched the horizon,
the red sky anxiously, afraid that the fire
was going to consume his house
and he wanted nothing but peace
but the far off shots of blazing guns
drawing closer, of mortar bombs exploding
and rocket shells hitting destroying,
had him in a frenzy of fear

and the silhouettes coming from the horizon
wasn’t of people killing fire, or dancing to the music
of marimbas,
it was the signs of a vicious civil war
coming nearer and nearer
with a consuming blaze

and soon the whole country
would be on fire,
burning from shore to shore
in a destructive war
that would leave its people shattered
in poverty and with starvation,
with legs shot off by landmines.


[Reference: African poetry by Agostinho Neto]