We grew up in the early 1980’s
When trees were still many,
All Hills, green and over grown,
Carnopies of indegenous trees,
Dropping dry firewood all year long,
Unlike today, all long gone..
I miss the smell of the smoke of the pit latrine, organic treat and real,
Its ordour, as we burnt dry banana leaves,
Beneath, to kill the smell underneath,
Fire, red hot burning your hands,
As we stuffed the tiny hall,
With all,
The thick dark grey smoke,
Billowing the air…
The new Pit latrine, is hollow,and wanting..
We enjoyed throwing in as we waited,
For the drop to fall, pum pum pum!
Especially after several meals!
I miss the smell of the burnt cow-dung,
Dry cow-dung, gathered in a mound,
Grey smoke, in the kraal,
Cows gathered around it,
As their jaws, moved endlessly,
To gigatate the grass,
After a long grazing day…
At times,they chanced on Kamazoobas’
Millet garden,
Evoking her curses!
As we milked anyways…
I miss the smell of the cows,
The ordour is an innocent smell,
Milk, cow dung, form the fibre,
The long horned cows of Ankore,
Which long ago, helped Shaka Zulu..
Our shwenkuru!
I miss to see the cows grazing,
In the new grass, after the old was burnt,
In the dry spell, to kill the ticks and pests,
Like Kijuuju, that recked havoc!
As cows millowed the grass,
They would have bad runs,
Everywhere, they dropped,
Some coming to thier knees!
I miss the pit latrine and Cow dung!
Like Kafiti, the village wag.
