The Roads in Town
Three poems from Samuel Rubadiri, highlighting various issues in Botswana such as corruption, mismanagement of national infrastructure, racial prejudice and economic inequality.
The Roads in Town
Sparrows dance across
A neglected road
Chickens cross its potholes
The pavement
If that is a pavement
Is an overgrowth
Of weeds and shrubs
Brushing feet and rims
What was a gutter
Is now a bushveld
Creeping where tar
Is eroding
Drivers complain
“Why don’t the robots work?”
In a fury they drive over them
They collect the scraps
Might as well sell them back
To none other than the government
For a profit at that
Council knows
Of our neglected roads
They wait until
Their tyres burst before
They send workers
To do a week’s job in a month
And a month’s job in a year
So traffic is always growing
Everyone complains
Even the labourers under the sun
And the chinaman watching them run
Machines and signposts, saying
“SLOW DOWN — Construction Ahead”
Speeding is necessary
To survive
The chinamans tumbling bridge
To avoid
The hijackers trapping at stop streets
To prevent
The kombi that slowly merges
In and out of lanes
With a wave of his hand
And no indicators
Green lights mean GO
Orange lights mean GO FASTER
Red lights mean GO FAST ENOUGH
- TO NOT BE T-BONED
A cop might pull the driver over
If he feels hungry or thirsty
He might go with you at the red light
To skip traffic
Hooting with you in celebration
On these roads
4WDs are kings
SUVs are lords
Everything else — peasantry
Which Mercs and BMERs deny
While speed bumps scrap their chassis
And flash floods drown their wheels
It does not take a visionary
To plan a city
But it takes a madman
To let it run like a circus
And say:
“That’s just Gabz for you.”
To any soul that dares brave our roads
Here’re some pointers:
Watch out for cows
They can kill
Avoid the goats
That’s our dinner
Please bump the dogs
And flatten the cats
They can fill the craters
Of our neglected roads
And most importantly
Always have some cash
Since bribes are cheaper than fines
And ‘Cool Time’ calms road rage
Of a driver sitting in traffic too long
Some Real Negritude
there ain-t nothing that-s black about me
other than my clay-coloured-skin
my roots in southern Africa
and my distinct articulations
at home they call me coconut
coz i be white
in ways i read and write
I show no negritude
by which they mean
hip hop bantu talk and struggle
since my mother is a lekgowa¹
and my education private-and-prestigious
my name and sight deceives they say
for when i speak i talk
like they do about things they care of
and i wondered whether i could be black enough
honestly i-m just a nigga that loves the land
cursed to the bone
by blood of victor and victim
i showcase both histories
these days i turn back and say
what then is a nigga to you
poor and prostitute
participates of gang violence
potheads with crackhead-ed
baby mamas — no real future ahead
so long as i speak ebonics or a bantu tongue
then am I black
i watch the words — their double meaning
because if white means well spoken and read
then what does it mean for the black man
why reduce a nigga to slum-sleeper
black nigga African
words we never chose but we-re given
black nigga African
what do they mean
to dance and have rhythm
as to entertain whom
to run miles and not tire
as to flee from what
we look at the world divided into
me and you
but you say i am as white is
coz of cash class and control
if black is to be broke-and-broken
then why be a nigga
or maybe the negro needs new clothes
than the tropes of what white is not
1. Lekgowa: white person in Setswana
Boipuso¹
my homeland is a star of forgotten light
on quiet nights its children dream
of life on stars of silky cloth beyond the heat
they star gaze with fermented grain
numbing their pain of coveted gain
exclaiming to all who would listen:
“there is no future here”
“just a clouded heaven, an empty promise.”
dressed in starlight a child speaks up
of a blue and black and white banner
that says there is enough pula³ for everyone
“the land with gold is nothing but snow
take it from me who knows
who has lived in comfort alone
greener grass means wetter weather”
“Can you handle that?”
a man with needs leans in
he manhandles the child
tearing his cosmic collar
“this is all I have to handle!”
the child falls to the floor
the light forgets itself
both are worse for wear
living in existential fear
1. Boipuso: Independence Day in Setswana
2. Pula: Rain in Setswana but it is also the name of Botswana’s currency
Samuel Rubadiri works as a secondary school teacher in his hometown Gaborone, but when he is not in the classroom, encouraging his students to take up the pen, he writes poems and short stories. Some of them are inspired by his upbringing in and feelings towards Botswana, while others explore more universal themes like love and grief. More of his works can be found on his website samuelrubadiri.com . You can also follow him on Instagram @kwaemsam96.
