My dreams these days are grey
Their wasteland is painted into my waking hours
In the pounding of each pavement
Beneath the dark, heavy sky
And in between corridors of long, grey buildings
Of glass and brick and mortar,
I dream of the place that I once called home.
The land of my dreams haunts me with familiarity
If I am lucky, there will be music
If I am blessed, the memory of a sweet fruit
Will tease my tongue.
If I am favoured, I will see the shoot of my forefathers.
The dream is the same, every single time:
I dream that I am walking
Through a wasteland
The air is grey as the earth is dead
And the sun is hidden
In the nebulous haze of it all.
From the corner of my eye
I catch a flash of brilliant green
And as soon as I see it
I am transported to its side.
The shoot of my forefathers is beautiful to behold
Small but mighty
And blinding in the greyscale monotony of its surroundings
Its fresh, green leaf vibrates with thousands of voices,
Each one calling out my name.
I tentatively reach out,
And when my hand meets the shoot,
There is an explosion of
COLOUR
I am a child again in a muddy playground
I am a child again in a pink, dirty dress.
With happy milk teeth and a gurgling tongue
Learning letters, numbers, words.
Learning paths up and down.
In The land that I call home
I see taxis and motor bikes
And mama’s red leesu
And papa’s green bible
And the house with the matooke garden
Outside the living-room window.
The house of my father transforms into
My Father’s house:
A church steeple this time
Twelve wooden benches
And an altar boy who looks at me when I look at him
And turns away when I do the same
My first love gave his love to my Father
And drove me away into this land of grey
His kiss lingers on my dry, chapped lips
And I wonder if he would remember my voice
If he heard it again.
The final part of the dream fills me with
A deep, insatiable longing…
I tire of the words of educated men
I tire of their tirades and questions about
Lions in my back yard,
I want to reach up and wrench the steel buildings from the sky
To mould Crosswalks and yellow cabs
Into yellow bananas and ripe mangoes
I want to tear McDonald’s from the sky and squeeze it into a seed
A seed that I will plant into the rich soil of my homeland
To bear whatever fruit it may
When I wake from the dream, my mind is made up.
From inside the metal bird I view the Lake Victoria
The bird swoops down and I can see the altar boy
Waiting on the asphalt
He is holding a flower with a brilliant, green shoot.
The land of my forefathers is bursting with them
They reach up and out of every nook and cranny
There are seeds crammed into every gram of soil
Waiting to be watered with the power of hope
Africa as old as time itself:
With its dusty paths
And markets with fruit stalls and jagged pieces of meat
With families of flies staking their claim
Africa with…
Starry nights and sticky, red sunsets.
And hurried sunrises and sweltering afternoons
With brilliant minds and foundations of family
Africa…Is the new land of opportunity.
Do not be deceived by the allure of grey landscapes
Across the water which holds the earth intact
Heed the call in your wandering heart
Come back home and plant your seed
And though you may not eat its fruit
Know that those who follow you
Will plant the harvest of your hope.
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