Remembering the Mission - even when in Comfort

My relationship with Poetry is somewhat complicated; I left her in 2010 while trying to make it work with Actuarial Science and we are yet to properly reconcile. The betrayal is not something I am proud of for I almost lost the very essence of my being in the process. We met while I was still in high-school and I started actively engaging with her during my unplanned ‘gap-year’ in 2008. It was while intoxicated with the ecstasy of this love-affair that I was introduced to a poem titled ‘You will forget’ by Chenjerai Hove. The poem came to mind a few months ago while attending an event at the Institute for Justice and Reconciliation here in Cape Town. One of the panelists was a woman I met while studying in the Free State and the conversation that ensued between us was a very interesting one, an eye-opener. I shared with her my challenges of being new in the area. One of these challenges was that of finding my place at the University of Cape Town and finding my way around Cape Town as my new home. I guess part of the struggle was due in part to the advice I had received before setting off for the big city. I was warned not to fall prey to the 'white and liberal' bug. Although I deeply doubt the possibility of this, I was still worried. I was worried that in the comfort of this city I would forget about the concerns of my fellow Africans. I was worried that in the comfort of the city and that of my own privilege I would forget about my own personal mission to play an active role in Africa’s Renaissance.

I count this poem among my very personal favorites:

You will forget - Chenjerai Hove

If you stay in comfort too long

You will not know

The weight of a water pot

On the bald head of the village woman

You will forget

The weight of three bundles of thatch grass

On the sinewy neck of the woman

Whose baby cries on her back

For a blade of grass in its eyes

Sure, if you stay in comfort too long

You will not know the pain

Of child birth without a nurse in white

You will forget

The thirst, the cracked dusty lips

Of the woman in the valley

On her way to the headman who isn’t there

You will forget

The pouring pain of a thorn prick

With a load on the head.

If you stay in comfort too long

You will forget

The wailing in the valley

Of women losing a husband in the mines.

You will forget

The rough handshake of coarse palms

Full of teary sorrow at the funeral.

If you stay in comfort too long

You will not hear

The shrieky voice of old warriors sing

The songs of fresh storied battlefields.

You will forget

The unfeeling bare feet

Gripping the warm soil turned by the plough

You will forget

The voice of the season talking to the oxen.