When you are born,
You know that you are,
Here to change the world,
And it is good,
And it’s alright,
To do your best.

Then,

You’re checking the curtains,
Just in case,
You run out of sunshine.

He is munching on nuts,
vigorously,

Utilising the muscles he has.

He has wonderful eyes,
Hawk eyes,

Wide set and is,
Now eating a banana with a plastic spoon.

We both have motioned for a waiter.

He is masticating on a blob of Almond paste that he,
Has scooped from the glass jar in the,

Center of the table, by the ash tray
With his *******,

Nibbling like a squirrel,

And there is something askew,
As he rushes,

To the aid of a woman carrying,
Four heavy bags.

He leaves his own where it is,
Unattended.

I wonder if he’s on drugs, or
Just a tourist,

High on Africa,
A white man free to do as he pleases,

But I am a black man preparing to fly, and
Have been informed about bags,

Left unattended.

The broom slices across the floor,
Cutting a precise path through the mess,

Clean swathe through the valley,

Creating mounds of discarded,
Clothing,

Pieces,

Returning slowly to their original state while,
Still holding plastic memories of the night out,

-whether or not they resulted in a steady boyfriend,
Or a hang-over-

A strong attempt at cleaning up,
A fine start.

A wayward sock appears on top of the
Crest on the
Right
Smiling.

Freedom has come at last.

The lush valley,
Though it took years,

Has been traversed.

The mannequin operating the broomstick,
Is creating life at last,

And as was written,
The cockroach was right.

When a window is shut,
Somewhere, a door will open.

There are no terrorists here,

Says the classic bold type,
On the FullScap paper,

In the folder on the dusty desk,
Of the Satellite police station in Isiolo.

The drilling rigs will make no difference to,
The cows or the goats or the lives of the people,
Who do not live here.

The construction does not impinge on farms,
And will be manned by machines not capable of dying,
So there is no need to worry,

The oil will be distributed fairly,
According to the percentages,
Agreed to in the constitution.

The matter of people living
In Isiolo does not come into this.

There are no people here.

I wish we had played on all night,
African cowboys with not much,
Else to do,

I wish we had challenged the fish in the sea and,
Called out to the Bison,

My father and his band,
And his

-strike while the iron is hot-

Jive,

Johnstone, his brother,
On the drums,
Kicking up a riot,

Sarah the lead,
Crooning about her rescue from a,
Very bad man,

Lydia,
Lead back-up,

Flinging in the,
‘Alleluiahs’, and
‘Godda-let-it-be’s!

Samuel,
A doctor dying of AIDS,
Breathing life into a tin-metal harmonica,

‘Alleluhia,’

Rocking the old man at the end of the bar,
And the couple at the table, fighting with their lips,

I think heard it coming when he fumbled the line,
And I wish we had played on all night.

They removed the thermostats,
And made us pay for every cup of water we used,

I was standing in the rain,
With a white friend and a Servant.

We marveled at the homemade architecture,
Hopped the rivulets of grime,
And heaved big sighs.

I asked him why there were,
Water tanks with signs that read,
Twenty shillings a litre.

He said,
They sell water here too.

Scottish men protect,
Single malt whiskey,
Welsh women,
The language they speak,

My Palestinian friend once told me,
Water,
Israelis keep.