The scared man drags himself inside the house, pulling a sad face.
He looks at the empty table in front of him, nervously cursing under his breath.
He puts his empty wallet on the table.
He puts his phone on the table.
He throws his jacket on top of the table.
He puts his lunchbox on the table.
He lays down memories of his mother warning him about coming to vicious Jozi.
He puts down a picture of his hungry sons that he left back in Zimbabwe.
He dishes out a memory of his wife begging him to stay with her in Zimbabwe so that they could multiply.
He lays on the table a dark memory of his harsh work environment in the kitchens; the backbreaking gardening.
He throws on the table a stinky smell of the rotten pie his boss had served him for lunch at work.
He puts down the stress of not making enough money on the table.
He throws on top an eviction notice and a sad letter from home.
He puts down all of his faith until none is left in him
He throws on top self-hatred and anger; his violent past too.
He puts down a couple of brown cents in the table.
The table doesn’t break but shakes hard
Like him it has no choice but to bare this and bare it alone