When they cried of freedom, when the sweet
mingling of woodsmoke and jasmine
with dust: grass, granite, antelope
bone: gathered into wrists which turned

light the colour of blood, darkness
a memory of the colour
of blood – when their voices lifted
that song and sent it echoing

across Africa, I knew it.
Sibanda had taught it to me.
Polishing the family's shoes,
squatting outside the scullery

door. We both wore khaki trousers
many sizes too big; no shirt,
no shoes. I spat on the toecaps
while he brushed; and while he brushed

we sang: "Nkosi sikele'
iAfrica . . . " over and over
till the birds joined in. August birds.
" . . . maluphakamiso phondo lwayo . . . " *

It comes back to me, this August,
now that the jasmine is blooming
and the air is stilled by woodsmoke;
how they cried freedom, and how I
knew their song. A lingering chill
pinches Zimbabwean sunsets
in the cheeks of my children
squatting beside me as I write.

It is their song too. I teach it
to them, over and over, till
my tired eyes are pricked with tears
held back, sweet smoke, dust and jasmine.