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.