When they cried 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 sikelel'
iAfrika…' over and over
till the birds joined in. August birds.
'… Maluphakanisw' udumo 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
into 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.