Poem: Olof Palme Orphans Education Centre

This is a poem that is based on some of my travel journal entries, a journal which already consists of 124 ledger-sized pages of hand-written musings.

Olof Palme Orphans Education Centre

The sun hangs high
In a cloudless blue sky,

Drop of amber

In sapphire sea.
For the first time in days
Beads of sweat
Assume formation on my brow.
My newly laundered shirt is dry,
At least, for now.

The fresh bug bites
That scar my wrist
Itch like the devil.
A breeze blows softly
From the east,
Causing the fronds
Of coconut palms
To rustle

And shiver,
As if being kissed
By invisible lips.

For once,
The sounds of songbirds
Overwhelm

The caws of crows
And cackles of hens.
The maize in the field
Behind the school
Is brown

And ready to pick.
Orange trees hang heavy
With sour-sweet fruit,
While pawpaws wait to fall.
Only the bananas
Refuse to offer
Themselves to the cook.

A rooster crows,
Challenged, no doubt,
By the previous lines,
Reclaiming dominance
For domesticated fowl.
Let him crow all he wants,
He’ll soon be on the plate,
Swimming in a sauce
Of fresh coconut milk.

Girls in the classroom
Next to mine
Laugh at something
The teacher does

Or says.
The cock crows again
As I scratch a bite
With absent-minded ardor.
A golden bug
Crawls across my sandal
While in the distance

The tea-time bell rings
Calling the girls

To the dining hall.

The wind picks up,
Then dies,
Ebbing and flowing
Like unseen tides of air.
Goats bleat

With barely heard voices
While outside the door
A student beats
A chalkboard eraser
Against a handy palm tree,
Raising a cloud
Of fine white dust
That settles on her dress.

In the classroom someone coughs,
Then coughs
And coughs again.
Sangu lectures on,
Undisturbed by the tea-time bell.
The air is still,
Then winds swirl
And songbirds trill
And students

Bang erasers
On a tree.

This is Africa.
This is Tanzania.
This is Olof Palme.

(c) J S Phillips