The Calabash

The upper end of a fireplace
is its permanent seat.
Round-bellied it presides over family issues;
and from its regal seat
watches the newly-wed bride about her morning chores.
It is reassurance to the young and the old,
that there will be food, always, in this house.
Cats and dogs swear by it, and claim it's fed them well till now.
Where it sits, away from the doorway people can't;
and if they did we'd know in this home there's no custom.

In big homes they sit in a row
like judges sit to give sentence.
And unperturbed by the proceedings
visitors know there'll be food
and intloya for the thirsty.
Sometimes there stands one lonely, slender calabash,
To hold the little milk of one wretched cow or goat.
Then a neighbour's boy steals in and drinks it dry.

I saw it at a curio shop
and thought I'd buy it for my keeping:
a reminder of my childhood days.
And when I took it there arose the moaning voice
of a fly's desolate buzz inside,
trapped while hunting for scarce remains.

Over a Pot of Beer

You have sat before the sages of our race,
foam flowing over generously.
You have witnessed pacts
being made over your head.
Over a pot of beer masters have discussed
the weather and the long drought;
the rains and wealth from the land.

Solemn pledges have been made to the ancestors
while you watched, you pot of clay.