II
The geography of remembering
In the old Medina, Marrakech
The allure of your antiquity radiates
from you and your children, Marrakech;
cobbled streets save footprints of invaders.
High clay walls enclose a fortress;
winding enclaves conceal discreet favours
hammams promise perfumed bliss.
An adhaan subdues for pious prayers
then your restless, beguiling avenues
pay obeisance to a call from the faithful.
Droves of tenacious lives compulsively
ply their trade on every corner;
caftans and crafts seduce in Bab Doukalla.
And in souks robust Berber eclipses French chic,
boisterous bicycles impede our wanderings –
fortitude is palpable in postcolonial charm.
Two women and Als
On the edge of our garden
a hardy als endures winter bite;
tough green foliage glistens
with silvery drow as day arrives.
Its leaves brought trusted relief
for childhood maladies; bore
mother’s conviction about their
reliable and restorative power.
For it’s a tree that nurtures;
favouring nature’s universe, alerts
where we detoured in the name
of progress – profitable enterprises.
There’s a sturdy, lone woman who trades
at what’s left of the Parare,
promoting assiduously her duiwelstrek,
wilde dagga and buchu.
Our als bush protects this panacea
indigenous to rural Ethiopia; cures
while courageously resisting harsh
remedies sold at an exorbitant price.
Soles of our shoes
Old newspapers stuffed into my shoes;
craters in the soles since there was
no money to purchase new walkers –
… my tongue still tastes sugar
dissolved with water on white bread;
soggy, yet so deliciously inventive
…oily, milky vetkoek fried•
on a neighbour’s Jewel stove, spread
lavishly with melon and ginger jam
…outings to the Company Gardens,
feeding peanuts to squirrels;
candy-floss gripped, enchanted
…on Friday after school, making tums –**
melted brown sugar rolled hot in our hands –
with hungry children of St Francis Home.
All recalled when we need to endure,
practise patience, lie and wait for better days;
tying our souls into three fold knots
shielding against dour despair.
A city’s fury
Mrs D posted me that morning:
They burned my house down last night.
Do you have any blankets for my kids?
I read this browsing in a second-hand bookshop;
rich aroma of percolated coffee streaming through.
I will bring you blankets soon.
What else do you need right now?
She replied succinctly: Alles.
Flames consume mercilessly;
raze a humble household into rubble.
Yet what was ‘everything’?
Just a small flat, a few pieces of furniture –
ashes made with matches and cans of gasoline.
Reconstructing would take a lifetime of sacrifice.
But again the city’s fury may easily flare.
Perhaps tomorrow.
Georgie’s grandmother
Her face like bark of an embattled oak
seemingly empty...