Memories of Africa

Yellow sunsets, drunken noons, Congolese music,

loveless sex, the Mountains of the Moon

Corrupt politicians, colonial remnants still living the lie,

Tom Mboya and others killed in the cities and villages.

Short rains in Autumn, longer in Spring

My car on the murram, skidding and crashing,

my trumpeter’s teeth smashing into the windscreen.

The screams of the girl, the blood on the floor.

Nakuru flamingos who feed on the algae

then fly round the hippos who’ve rolled in their mud.

Or sultry Mombasa, sharing a room with unblinking geckos

who chase the mosquitos but frighten me cold.

I’m told the Rift Valley is two km deep;

a steep climb uphill then, right at the top,

in the tourists’ shop, tie-dyed kimonos,

hand-carved lions, giraffes, carafes and gourds.

Brass bands and riot police still fronted by white guys,

settlers and planters who’ve lived here for ages.

Most born in Kenya still making a living,

but going “home” to Britain in slow, tearful stages.

Images of sunsets and beaches of gold,

lank Masai warriors with no-one to challenge

their proud independence, their cold eyes of steel

that I feel in my back as I leave them alone.

There are wide boys in Rollers and houseboys in tatters,

whose tribes are what matters, not questions of law.

There are medics, businessmen and teachers like me

who know nothing of Africa’s life in the raw.

Kikuyus chase a Luo down the street then beat

him for stealing some bread for his kids.

Gamekeeper-poacher is played countrywide

where right and wrong live comfortably side by side.