Sometimes in April
When the rain pours
And makes mud of the earth.
I think of Brenda Fassie’s “Too Late For Mama”
Lingering on my sister’s vibrato
An attempt to forget that,
Once again,
A family member had lent us their back.
My three sisters and I huddled,
Under the night sky,
Singing.
A mild prayer to keep us from shivering.
A ‘let us find the mercy of a couch”
But it rained hard.
We used our limbs as umbrellas.
Laughed loud and sloppily
To hide our shame
Sometimes in April.
I think about the wet ground
How it felt against our feet.
How poverty turned into homeless.
Into needy.
Into “don’t cry, we’ll be okay soon”
Into my mother being a beggar
And us, just open mouths.
Wrestling with the pitiless relatives
Who call us out of our shared last names.
Sometimes
I think
Haven’t we lost enough
Haven’t we known an empty hand
Haven’t we despaired enough.
No shelter to speak of
Just a song to keep us warm
And the rain does not care. (Neither do the people)
It comes.
In April.