Son of the Drought
His hair, a hodgepodge of brown—almost red, tiny but tight knots
Atop a thousand ringworm patches on the dry dirty-white scab
His eyes tightly shut like a green immature bean pod
Son of the drought
Eyelids strained—an undersized sheet over the big eyeballs
Face once ebony-black, now a shriveled pallid cover over the small skull
Salty dried up tears leaving cream -white streaks on his bony cheeks
Teeth tightly clung together like the jaws of a vise
Lips cracked like the dry and thirsty earth on which he now lays
Son of the drought
His ribs jutted like jagged razor wires
Against the taut dehydrated skin—a collage of caked grime and sand
Arms—withered protrusions from the frail body
Legs like the thin stalks of the murangi
Son of the drought
Stomach bloated like a twin-pregnancy
Yet an empty den, pangs gnawing inside
His heartbeat feeble like faint whispers of a non-existent wind
Over this empty expanse of bare land
Stripped naked by the ferocious hand of the cruel sun
That has rendered these once fertile plains
Where the earth mated with the skies
And the sound of their pleasure brought forth dancing
Those were the days when wine flowed like the waters of the great African Nile
And fruit burst forth like the breasts of the Swazi queens
When the earth’s urine would flood the plains with fresh waters
Days long gone
Son of the drought
His last breath painful
like his heart’s been cut into a thousand pieces
