I’ve been here before
This home that I’ve chased since 1994.
“I am the sun,” I’ve said, yet here I am chasing the wind with
outstretched arms. And clenching my fists to grab at calm yet
Sometimes I’m falling from cloud ninety-nine,
flailing my legs as if trying to tread water. It is a blessing when I land
on a cold hard floor because if the air thickens and I am able to swim, and
if I land soft like a feather or even break a few bones
I will climb again
I do not feel worthy,
if I have to gesticulate like a cock before hens in the morning
screaming as the dawn articulates his golden plumage, thrust out of his protracted chest or
when, owl-like, lands softly at dusk on the Jesus-head of a Catholic church
My whole being is but a suggestion in the air
I sit in my chair in my corner of a town,
of a nation, of a region, of a continent on the planet it seems
like a mere molecule in a nonchalant storm cloud coming in.
They call it being a wallflower?
Yet even the least of them
who are shakily formed onto canvas by a fledgling first year fine arts student
using only leftover watercolors gifted him by the husband of a dead aunt are worthy of praise and of eyes that float over to behold not the singular, but the whole.
Yet. I. Can. No. Longer
Act as though the whole is greater than the lesser.
They say that the sun only has five billion more years to live until it runs out of hydrogen. And honestly, my rays only have five days before I
Run away from home
I will fall from my vine and
land on the hard concrete jungle that swallows us whole.
Unable to grow, I will die from you, do you hear me? You will be left alone and
live only in whispers unable to express the life that you once could have had, had you been better at horticulture.
You ungrateful earth
Wasteful humanity letting the good of you die out unnoticed,
just to give evil a chance to repent.
Have you not learnt that each man kills the thing he loves?
Do not dare put flowers on my grave
Nor food, nor prayer.
For my spirit will not be forgiving.
I will be fled, finally released from these bounds and in the arms,
I hope, of the hope and home I’ve longed for, since 1994.
Lindiwe Dhlakama is a writer and humanitarian. She has a BA in Film and Media Production specialising in Screenwriting, and an MSc in Africa and International Development. When she is not working, she can be found either reading, writing, loving on her dogs, or trying to catch a glimpse of an elephant in one of Zimbabwe’s beautiful nature reserves. In 2018, she self-published a collection of short stories entitled Birthplace: A Collection of Recollections which is available on Amazon Books.