African Solo by Yvette Merton

Young girl crouches outside under parched sun,
she scrapes the skin of the oats from the
bottom of the pan.
she eats from its spilling as it slides through
scrawny fingers.

African sky is boiling, hot dry heat, but still
she works, cooking, cleaning, removing dirt
from blistered feet.
Furrowed brow is alive with worry, vacant eyes
yearn for something better she wipes the sweat
from her face with a grubby sleeve, but things are
what they are and she knows it.

In the village, chickens squawk, wealthier women
grace by with their swirls of coloured cloth, old men
shade under sap-licked trees, the few trees there are.
Onwards to market, rattan baskets balance perfectly
on tiny heads, wild yams pulled from the earth by
farmers sell to those who can afford it.

Ghetto air stirs, but the young girl crouching
under parched sun doesn’t belong, so she builds a
world behind her eyes.
She clanks the side of the pan with the remains
of a wooden spoon, she becomes a soloist playing
to the lyrical beat of metal on wood.
Dreams are all she has…

Converging feet kick her sometimes, but she holds
no pity for herself.
No one likes to listen, ears are shallow as caves here.
Children gather round, hands cupped waiting for a stray
of fallen food, their bumping and jostling doesn’t
deter her.
She continues to beat with wooden spoon and metal pan
even though the wood has splintered and her hand is cut.

She will wait till precisely the right time, then
at night with the lull of evening drums,
dirty earth slipping from tired feet will carry
her, the soloist, and her instrument, away from
this town where she doesn’t belong.