It Still Rains in The Desert
There is always space for one more but even the taxi is full,
All 16 + 3 aboard, swimming across the highway.
Mother Nature’s water has broken, the backseat tears from boy-child’s bulging bladder
Cleanse the elements of its evils. The unremitting rain
in bucket-loads of rivers. Driver atop of a wet roof,
showers baptise Nkosi’s head as the clouds’ tap leaks.
Submerged suddenly, the up-stream and down-stream foam
flowing in the streets. A parked car is washed away,
the owner from outside is drenched to the skin.
Fatherly desert, wetlands dry under the dehydrating skies.
The floodgates swung open, the drops of full dew
flooded the drought with despair. I spilled my drink;
I crawled to the overflowing bath tub; the pipes burst of air,
I am thirsty.
The back of my throat is Kalahari dry, spit is Sahara sands, as the ground breaks, eroding.
The drained tanks were caught off guard,
drowning in drought, with open mouths salivating.
Gogo Nomvula’s favourite ever-green, well-nourished tree
with its roots embedded in the bed of the river is uprooted.
When it rains, it doesn’t, paddling through mud wringing my soul.
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There are no survivors here,
only remains. Because nobody,
no body, was washed to the shore whole,
We are but bits of pieces of the crush-chew,
but swallow-us-not seas.
Did we really survive? What is survival vele-vele?
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