Mabota by Rethabile Masilo

One day the Mnandi sea
broke the southern crag,
and washed it, washed it
with soapy suds and
I saw brought down, by a jazz
ensemble, the walls of Jericho.
On that day, I went down
to the beach and listened,
half hoping for words to
appear, some pure clue to give
sense to our predicament,
a sign to be acknowledged,
cherished, held most dear.
On the contrary,
among spaces and old worlds
you can watch them keep
their outdoors from coming in.
If they spoke at all
we’d know why the child died—
it would be revealed to us—
if they as much as cracked
such code of silence.


Rethabile Masilo, France