Around a dying brazier

In winter at our squatter camp,

An amateurish guitar man would come at dusk

To liven up our brazier with his guitar strings

As he sings: ‘O, izulu liya duma eMarabini.’[1]

He would start by singing poignantly

Amidst sobs and cries and dying embers

Until a heap of sorghum beers

Surround him like confetti

 Strewn at the world acclaimed pop star

As he sings and sips: ‘O, izulu liya duma eMarabini.’

Our squatter camp is full of weeping in winter,

We’re burnt and buried and bear homelessness,

But that guitar man would come and harness

Our tears around the strings of his guitar

As he sings: ‘O, izulu liya duma eMarabini.’

Our little drowsy glue snuffers

Seeking warmth from the toxic sticker,

He would lash with a lyrical strap full of glamour and warmth

As he sings: ‘O, izulu liya duma eMarabini.’

The mampuru imbibing job-ridden fathers

Seeking solace in the health ravaging mixture,

He would exhort with his fiery guitar strings

As he sings: ‘O, izulu liya duma eMarabini.’

Pausing with determination to drink his animating beer,

He would nudge his assistant to ready his tabor

As he would now send us to our plastic-cardboard-blanketed-beds

With hearts wrapped around his guitar strings

As we all sing: ‘O, izulu liya duma eMarabini.’

Abram O Mahlaba

[1] A song for a community longing for rain

Image via Wikipedia