As the creaking door shut behind me,

the walls squeeze me in an insufferable embrace.

The home of scarce possessions

The pregnant tv with wiggly antennas  

The tattered couch le maplanka a go kokonela 

Its wooden seats shamelessly pinch the buttock.

The humming gas stove 

And all else within an arm’s reach 

You know what else?

Basotho, people of skin, burnt and bruised with colour 

No private room to separate us 

No internet to blind us 

The void is filled with tavern melodies 

The chatter of soapies 

And the lingering aroma of today’s supper. 

We whip out our bare fingers and chuck the utensils 

Break the bread and share the crumbs

As though a body of our salvation 

We enjoy the feast with our open fists 

Nothing is fancy; anyone can see 

My eyes crawl to touch the ceiling 

Following the wet trail of its tears during a rainfall 

And the room entraps unwelcome heat when the sun rises,

Simmering the air into a thickness hard to chop and inhale

Bathing is the only activity this room empties into privacy for. 

There’s no presence of glamour, 

but no absence is felt either. 

How I am fond of this tiny village I visit.