WINNER OF THE PHILIP PYKE MEMORIAL PRIZE 2026
“Is it racist if I ask you if the Lion King theme song reminds you of
home?” Before I knew it,
a laugh of discomfort
echoed, settled
in the awkward
space between us.
A cover for the rage that was
Brewing under the surface of a smile.
My smile. “Yes” pushed out
through gritted teeth.
Responses ricocheting
off the walls of my mind,
but I stay silent.
***
The dry heat of sub-Saharan terrain.
Fruit cravings satisfied by succulent
Juices of mangos,
guavas, ripe lemons.
Awaking.
The grinding motion of my grandmother’s hands
making a morning cup of jabna.
Golden adornment shivers and shakes
in the midst of sweet coffee aromas
dancing and jiving in the air.
Sudden visits. Neighbours, family,
friends appear.
Annoyance sweeping across
my mothers face, too familiar
with the polite policies upheld by
Her Royal Majesty’s subjects.
It rattles her.
This Is Africa.
She half forgets
here, time is ruled by the people.
It waits for conversations,
coincidental meetings on street corners,
outside bodegas.
Friday morning,
mirages of men.
Long white crisp jalabiyas
flowing majestically,
hems sweep surfaces
of tamarind coloured dirt.
December winds
carry the sounds of women ululating,
celebrating a union.
In a corner, the mother watches
and silently says farewell,
eyes glistening with loss and love.
The noble tree
which stands in my granddads garden.
Its swollen lemons shining,
its thick coiled branches
offering shade, and
a moment to mourn
the man who planted the seed.
