Making Our Clowns Martyrs
Returning Home Without Chauffeurs We all know why you have come back home with no National colours flanking your black Mercedes Benz. The radio said the toilets in the banquet halls of Your dream have grown green creepers and cockroaches Which won't flush, and the orders you once shouted To the concubines so mute have now locked you in. Hard luck my friend. But we all know what currents Have stroked your temper. You come from a breed of Toxic frogs croaking beside the smoking marshes of River Shire, and the first words you breathed were Snapped by the lethal mosquitoes of this morass. We knew you would wade your way through the arena Though we wondered how you got chosen for the Benz. You should have been born up the hills, brother where Lake waters swirl and tempers deepen with each season Of the rains. There you'd see how the leopards of Dedza hills comb the land or hedge before their assault. But welcome back to the broken reed-fences, brother; Welcome ho...