It is Hard to Breathe, sometimes, in Africa

It is hard to breathe, sometimes, in Africa,

when the stench of milky sewage seeps

in rivulets down the eroded dirt of the hillside

from the lean-to tin and wooden-slatted shanty shack

clinging precariously to the side of the mountain.

Or when the mangy, tick born,

gaunt and starving puppy

approaches warily

In the hopes of being thrown a life sustaining scrap.

Or the snotty nosed, dirty little Aids orphans

with flies buzzing around their eyes

and their round bellies drum-taught with infestations of worms,

            and hunger

                        put their arms up for hugs.

I find I sigh a lot in Africa.

Sighs to keep living

when my soul and breath freezes with sorrow

for young men idling away their lives at the side of the road

whoring away the strength of their youth to do the bidding of the wealthy

digging and hauling and carrying –

for a pittance of pennies -

enough to feed the starving children on the hill tonight,

or perhaps to buy oblivion in a bottle

till the next morning of repetitious grinding, waiting

I stop breathing when I receive a little note on my pillow

from the domestic worker,

written carefully in 4th grade handwriting,

“Please can you help me to get my driving license?”

She walks 10 miles a day to and from her work on the opposite hill,

to wash and iron the white peoples’ dirty laundry,

clean their shitty toilets,

wipe out the toothpaste and phlegm in their sinks

and pack up the left-over table scraps

to take home to the hungry children on the other side of town.

I hold my breath listening to the insane intensity of the young man

who lives in a cave by the sea in the small town of Wilderness

He explains that “the Father” tells him how to live his life.

He takes in the homeless and bereft – they can sleep in his cave.

I sigh a lot in Africa

I sigh the sadness into my being.

And sometimes as I open my arms wide

to embrace the ragged orphans

and feel their soft little bodies snuggle up close with need,

My heart expands and my breathe becomes vast

and fills my being with life and love

Or the beauty of the shimmering, sun-bejeweled sea,

untouched by the dramas on her hilly shores,

is so beautiful that I breathe in deeply,

to take in the fresh clean salty breeze,

the light and luminosity

and call of the seagulls,

the flashing colors of the sunbirds and

the noisy community calls of the seals far beneath the rocky cliffs.

I cannot breath in enough of the cool pre-dawn African air,

filled with the primeval sounds of the lions hunting

and calling one another,

The sky and clouds lighting up blue and gold and pink

as the earth moves in her orbit,

drawn inexorably back to the light of the sun,

in a regular rotation of necessity.

I want to keep these sounds and sensations, smells and sights

and hungrily breathe them in as if they will then stay with me forever,

Knowing that I must leave soon, this beloved land.

Sometimes my soul relaxes.

Air rushes in with the smiles of generosity and giving,

the easy laughter of the saints on both hills. 

On one side of town

those that are awake

give rides to the weary women walking down the hill home,

to other side, the poor part of town in the evenings.

On the other side of town,

the face of smile-wrinkles and sparkling eyes of Margaret, the matriarch of orphans,

her head thrown back with a toothless smile as wide as the ocean

As she opens her arms to the lost waifs

as well as the wealthy benefactors

Everyone is welcome in this house of love.

It is hard to breathe in Africa.

I sigh a lot in Africa.

It is enough to practice the breath in Africa

So that it can become like the regular beating pulse of the land

And the steady rhythmic natural movement of the ocean

The slow and inevitable rotation of the earth,

No matter what is happening on her surface.

To remain calm and unchanging

Accepting and present.

To hold all of it in the infinite vastness

Of my breath - in and out.

© Lyndall Johnson