The early rains have already made their encounter with the fields,
leaving behind a trace of their intercourse
so they greet us with their wetness,
and we embrace their coolness.
but soon,
Etango glares and flares his glazing scotch at us
then we finally admit we have indeed
landed our feet in the desert
of the East.
It’s a small town
of coloured houses and mad huts-
cone-shaped structures of mud and dung,
hidden behind rustic fences
we’re welcomed first,
by appellations
of bleating cattle
A shadow emerges
from the cone hut, behind the rustic fence
a shadow of a woman adorned in intricate hairstyle-
red matted braids with cattle horns,
graced in her Erembe, of pure goat leather
her red skin gleams with butterfat and ochre mixture
Is that a necklace I see?
cone shells strung with iron and ostrich egg beads
Is that a bracelet I see?
coils of iron and plastic etched hair,
beauty of culture embroidered on the skin of a feminine gem
like the beauty of spring as it bursts out from the rocks,
diving gallantly into the depth of Zambezi
Mopare worms, mahangu, are your delicacies
red ochre, aromatic resin- your beauty’s hallmark
we have come, and gone far
with our episodes in South West Africa
a long episode
but to me,
a blink.
Ruth Gladstone 