Africa
André Brink, Meri Nana-Ama Danquah

André Brink
Cape Town, South Africa
(Sunny, mild, appr 21 degrees; strong wind; sea with reasonable swell)
Her small slender hand is resting confidently in mine as we take our afternoon walk through the peaceful suburb. The oak-trees are turning in the intimations of autumn; there is a suggestion of space in the air. She is a small black girl, seven years old, very beautiful, and we informally adopted her at birth. She started school this year, and is telling me about this morning’s classes.
“What is sex?” she asks. “Why do you ask?” I want to know. “Because the children at  school were talking about it.” I keep a straight face and give her a few bits of basic information. “My goodness,”she says, an expression of slight disgust on her face. “And you have four children: does that mean you did it FOUR times?”
We proceed on our peaceful walk. From very far away comes the sound of sirens. Police? Ambulance? Fire brigade? It could be anything. This morning’s paper referred to recent crime statistics: three murders every minute, one rape every twelve minutes, an armed robbery every five minutes, a case of child abuse every ten minutes ... But all that seems very far away in this tranquill space.
Behind Table Mountain the sun is setting, setting the sky ablaze. Soon it will be dark. Her small hand rests very confidently in mine. I will not let it go. It is my investment in the future.

Meri Nana-Ama Danquah
Accra, Ghana, West Africa
(Clear, hot, humid. Wind non existent. 97 degrees F, Bordering the Gulf of Guinea, which is part of the Atlantic Ocean)
[Loss of Power] no electricity or running water again
how am i supposed to make my deadlines? how do i proceed?
frustrated by the seeming limitation of my possibilities, i slide
a housedress off its hanger, the green and yellow batik
the one that reveals my ample bottom, the smallness of my breasts
i wear it, grab a beer from the powerless refrigerator and go
outside on the verandah to sit and try to make peace with boredom
i watch the men walking down this neighborhood street
bare-chested vendors lugging their wares, announcing their presence
in loud, slurred multi-lingual screams barely understandable
to even the fluent, their hard muscled bodies glisten brilliantly
under the African sun, still scalding, still merciless
even as it moves toward setting
somewhere nearby, someone is pounding fufu for dinner
my body instinctively responds to each fierce thump of the stick
i can almost feel the rhythm in my fingers and feet, in my bones,
in each synchronized beat of my heart. thump, thump, thump...
through my neighbor’s window i can hear the radio
some yack-yack program is on and people are talking in numbers
they are yacking on and on about the first hundred days of this new government
in this third world country whose debt is in the trillions
but i don’t want to stop and figure it all out, i don’t want to
think about poverty or prosperity. not now. not as i take my last sip,
and remember that i, myself, am also, ultimately, powerless. not as i sit
surrounded by the lizards and dragonflies, the lemongrass and papayas trees
as i move beyond calculations and plans into the realization
that in this moment, in this involuntary recess
from the day and its demands, its responsibilities
time does not respond to or rely on technology. time exists within
and without. all around me, all around the world,
the experience of life moves forward, calmly, quietly
even when all else fails.

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