A BOTSWANA MEMORY:

I sit on an old peppercorn tree trunk under a baobab tree that has seen things we can only imagine & will live into futures we will never see. I am on the river bank at 5 am. The fish eagle dips to catch a fish dodging the jaws of the ever ready crocodile, while the hippo yawns a welcome to the misty day. The promise of another hot day kisses the slow river with mystic mist. The sky is a vast canvas painted with colours not found in any artist´s studio. The sounds of the bush rustle, crackle, squeak & hiss. The lion drinks next to the mighty elephant & the delicate springbok. At the water hole nobody kills, there is a mutual respect at this holy spot, a morning & evening ritual of reverence for water. I sit sipping my steaming hot rooibos tea, African tea out of an old chipped tin mug with my old friend Maruti who tells me tales of the old continent & never has tea tasted so good. A fantasy? No, a reality of my past & if you want to know more about Maruti he is in my book called Lollipops of dust.