School boys run in their Toughees and conjure up
Clouds of dust on the blistering sun-baked earth.
Girls gossip in a language I cannot understand.
Grandmothers sip Mageu as they point at the
Golden grass patches in the horizon.
Old men gather around rusty, sizzling half drum braai stands
And drool over the meat, the opaque beer and girls in
Spray on Levis, wielding parasols and cheap red lipstick.
The smell of boiled free range chicken and mabele porridge
Holds me captive in the complaining bus as we
Wait for the herd of emaciated goats to finish insulting
Our bus driver.
I close my eyes and take all these sounds in to be
Gently woken by a tinny Tracy Chapman wailing about a revolution.
Somehow, there is something magical about Botswana,
Home of the Pula, Thebe and the Kalahari.
It makes me proud to be here,
Complaining about the heat and the loud conversations
That bounce all around the bus as all the people tell
Loud stories and share in their humanness.
Deep down I celebrate its uniqueness and spirit.
Frank Malaba™ © 2012