You Will Forget - by Chenjerai Hove

If you stay in comfort too long
You will not know
The weight of a water pot
On the bald head of the village woman

You will forget
The weight of three bundles of thatch grass
On the sinewy neck of the woman
Whose baby cries on her back
For a blade of grass in its eyes

Sure, if you stay in comfort too long
You will not know the pain
Of child birth without a nurse in white

You will forget
The thirst, the cracked dusty lips
Of the woman in the valley
On her way to the headman who isn’t there

You will forget
The pouring pain of a thorn prick
With a load on the head.

If you stay in comfort too long

You will forget
The wailing in the valley
Of women losing a husband in the mines.

You will forget
The rough handshake of coarse palms
Full of teary sorrow at the funeral.

If you stay in comfort too long

You will not hear
The shrieky voice of old warriors singing
The songs of fresh storied battlefields.

You will forget
The unfeeling bare feet
Gripping the warm soil turned by the plough

You will forget
The voice of the season talking to the oxen.

COLONIAL GIRLS SCHOOL by Olive Senior

Borrowed images
willed our skins pale
muffled over laughter
lowered our voices
let out our hems
dekinked our hair
denied our sex in gym tunics and bloomers
harnessed our voices to madrigals
and genteel airs
yoked our minds to declensions in Latin
and the language of Shakespeare

Told us nothing about ourselves
There was nothing about us at all

How those pale northern eyes and
aristocratic whispers once erased us
How our loudness, our laughter
debased us

There was nothing left of ourselves
Nothing about us at all

Studying: History, Ancient and ModernKings and Queens of England
Steppes of Russia
Wheatfields of Canada

There was nothing of our landscape there
Nothing about us at all

Marcus Garvey turned twice in his grave
‘Thirty-eight was a beacon. A flame.
They were talking of desegregation
in Little Rock, Arkansas. Lumumba
and the Congo. To us: mumbo-jumbo.
We had read Vachal Lindsay’s
vision of the jungle

Feeling nothing about ourselves
There was nothing about us at all

Months, years, a childhood memorising
Latin declensions
(For our language
-‘bad talking’-
detentions)

Finding nothing about us there
Nothing about us at all

So, friend of my childhood years
One day we’ll talk about
How the mirror broke
Who kissed us awake
Who let Anansi from his bag

For isn’t it strange how
northern eyes
in the brighter world before us now

Pale?