In a small Eastern Free State township,

I sit in the cool pre-dawn silence.

I watch young dogs, both domesticated and stray,

frolic in the grass.

A flock of pigeons flies overhead.

A pair of Indian Minors search for a morning snack.

A cow lumbers into someone’s yard, in search of nourishment.

Before long she emerges, heads down the road,

pauses, and lets out a somber bellow,

as if pleading to the heavens for rain…

for an end to the crippling drought.

Slowly, the township comes alive,

a radio blares in the distance.

Are these the remnants of a long drunken night?

Or is this someone who has just awoken, and is looking for

a distraction from the poverty they wrestle with on daily basis?

Soft voices can be heard coming from the neighbours.

A monologue… perhaps someone willing themselves to get up

and face yet another day…to dust off the hunger, despair

and frustration that weighs them down, and be defiantly hopeful.

As time marches on, one begins to hear a few more voices;

more people begin to emerge from their

small houses and shiny shacks surrounded by barren gardens.

The music that can be heard in the distance has now multiplied.

There was a time when those radios and hi-fis were brand new,

a time when life was good and families laughed more.

Perhaps the sounds that drift from their speakers is nothing more

than a reminder of what once was.

These are the sounds of a dusty Eastern Free State township,

in the early hours of the morning,

guarded by the distant Maluti mountains,

somewhere between the Lesotho border and Bloemfontein.