The frigid Highveld air had contempt for your anxiety.
It was an opening audience observing
Your scenes of fear and uncertainty.
A higher purpose flew you to Azania’s* ebony arms,
But on that first night you wanted out––
Back to the self-security of the homeland.
At a crude coffee table lit almost like a darkroom
You repeated your parent’s promise like an
Undeveloped exposure: We’ll only be here for a season.
Instead of critiquing the meaning of these words
You let your quarter of a KFC Family Feast become
A greasy morphine dulling your sense of uprootment.
* South Africa