Body is frail, he’s losing sight and hearing,
Yet the mind is sharp, teeming with wisdom!
We sat around, in the warmth of a log fire,
Snacking on roasted corn and peanuts,
Sharing a good cup of Tanganda tea!
Way into the depth of the darkest night,
‘Til it waved goodbye to the crescent moon.
He broadened on the droughts and floods,
Of yesteryear and the ensuing disasters,
Uncomfortable memories and roiling regrets.
Still, the year of the locust (gore rendongwe),
Remained a vivid recollection, like a still picture.
The gregarious swarms settled, like a dark cloud,
In haste, destroyed all and sundry in their trail,
Then followed the famine and human migration.
Those scars faded into tales and wise words,
The old man advised that we’re passing guests,
On this planet, separate needs from wishes,
A house full of riches is not always home,
Happiness isn’t found halfway across the earth.
And it started raining again! To the rhythm,
Of the heavy raindrops on the corrugated roof,
The childlike smile exposed an imperfect,
Half-set, of the old man’s tea-stained teeth.
With his black pants now dry, he stood up!
Abruptly, and left for bed!