I come not to mourn you, Comrade.
I’ll shed no tear, my friend.
I refuse to say ‘pole’, to say ‘sorry’.
Why should I?
I refuse to bury you.
How can I?
For you live.
You live in me
You live in many, across the globe,
Who loved you.
Whose lives you touched,
Whose hearts you cuddled,
Whose minds you tickled.
I come to celebrate your living, Comrade.
I’ll toast to your Ideas, my friend.
Over a glass of savanna, and a plate of nyama choma.
In Rose Garden, in São Paulo, in New Delhi.
I’ll sing praises of Savanna, that unites the continent,
As you did, always.
I’ll pontificate on Savanna, that embraces civilizations,
As you preached and practised.
Who’ll be there, for me, with me,
‘To solve Africa’s problems?’
I know this is not a poem, nor a flowery prose.
Porojo it may be,
It’s for my friend and comrade,
For my compassionate companion,
Straight from my heart and soul.
Yes, it’s for my friend and Comrade,
For, he lives
At the burial of Sam Moyo
November 28, 2015
- Porojo is idle chat ↵