You stumble around from this side to that. Laughing, you throw back your head until you’re quiet and left smiling at the sun. You run and you scream. There are jitters of excitement all around while you begin to talk of the many plans you have away from this place. This place with its skies so blue and its bushveld still whispering the stories of old when the wind brushes by. This place where the crickets, raucous toads, police sirens, mosquitoes and helicopters all create a lullaby that sends you to sleep. This place is where one man will rob you but his brother will offer out his hand in friendship. You talk of leaving this place. This purple paradise when the weather is right. You talk of leaving. Leaving to a place unexplored by me. A place where the rhythm of your home will be lost to the swoosh, click, slide and mindless chatter of an uncultured world. Leaving your family, friends, park, spaza, veld and the place you call home. Home. Here, that home wraps around your heart with its acacia thorns puncturing it and never yielding its grip. The wild bushveld grows on your chest and right down your arms reminding you of where you belong and fit in. The view you get from the high hill of Fort Klapperkop is ingrained in your mind and you can scarcely let it go. The cattle, springbok, zebra, giraffe, elephant and maybe even the mighty lion will not let you leave for long. They will call you home and like the marimba your heart will beat and that throb will dance you home. You talk of leaving this place. You talk of leaving. You. You, with those eyes that fit into the sky where stars should be, will leave and find a place where the stars dare not shine shine for you. You will throw back your head and smile at the sun and say “Here, there? It’s all under the same sun. It doesn’t matter!”
It matters to me
It matters to me as this is my land, my sun and my home.