photographic print Zimbabwe (Republic of Zimbabwe) | ||
"First Kiss"
- Doug Scott
United States of America
© 2004 Doug Scott
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Artist's Statement: Berry Bickle "Bulawayo, I am from Bulawayo, the second city of Zimbabwe. On a return to Home, I found, saw, so many people wearing the black patch of mourning attached to their shirts. I knew what the patch meant and for whom it was worn; a generation decimated by AIDS and parents burying their children. It was with profound grief that I created HOME."
"The First Kiss" by Doug Scott (2004 - Zimbabwe)
There's someone new in my life, And I wanted to know Before we began, If we should begin Could begin Safely as one. So, here I am In a dreary, Waiting room With fear baked On the walls, As we all Try to pass the time, Hoping we'll still have Time When this is over. To distract us from Where we are, Volunteers on death row, Prisoners of our need to know, They've given us The popular musician "Tuku" on a TV video And life as he sings it, Is sweet A thing of rhythm and dance And laughter and smiling. Three convent girls in uniform, With nervous eyes Are worried, That someone Will see them, While young men try to be Above it all And a couple Tries to be sensible And a woman displays A body That would have men Crowding her in a bar, And another woman Ties a baby on her back And everyone calls An older man, "Baba." Mine is the only white face, My eyes touch living Black and brown Across the room. Here I am in Africa. The Africa Of townships, tired buses And endless queues. And up at 4:00 o'clock To get to work on time Does our humanity Touch across the room? Can you feel How I have insulated myself From you? With my nice white house, Behind the walls, In a quiet, Northern suburb. From where I sit I can see the door Of one of the private, Counselling rooms, A young man comes out smiling Obviously, a lottery winner. A nickname On your file Protects your privacy; They call that name, I step into a Private room In my mind, Where half of me Is somewhere else And I don't want to hear. Match the numbers Match the name, As stars hold their breath, While a single word Slides off the paper. And on to a tongue Of sympathy with Professional firmness And tissues ready If I want to cry... Negative I don't feel like a winner, I am completely shattered, She tells me that 3 out of 10 Of her clients that day Were positive. I step out into The cool evening air Of Harare Where street boys Count their change And play chequers With bottle tops And the office workers Are going home Some of the people I sat with are dying: The Convent girls in uniform And the young men, And the sensible couple, The body woman, The baby woman, And the man they call, "Baba." I walk away in a silent prayer For the strange ordeal we shared And so deep is the fear Of what happened there That for days I cannot imagine Sex as sweet, A thing of rhythm and dance And laughter and smiling. |