World Poetry Day

22 september 2009 There is an assembly of poets at a venue in First Street Harare. We meet and joke, a must, wait for the occasion to start. A small audience is already in place. At 2 p.m. sharp, the MC reads out the programme and tells the growing audience what the occasion is all about. The poets start to read. The audience is receptive.

My turn comes. I first read a Shona poem, ‘Durawalls’. Then the poem ‘My Uniform’. It is well received. There is thunderous applause. Then a policeman, a young policeman, approaches me; he asks me to come to a nearby police post. I realise that there is a misunderstanding. I follow him into the police booth. These men of the law, two of them, tell me that I insulted the police by reading the poem. They ask questions. What does your poem mean? Do you know that you are breaking the law? Do you know that you are old? Many questions. The younger officer is more zealous. The older man reads the poem to himself. He does not seem interested in preferring charges.

The younger asks the older what charges they should prefer. The older man shrugs his shoulders. The younger wants to take the poem to a higher office. I tell them I will go with my poem to the higher officer. The older policeman is quiet. The younger seems to enjoy my stay. He orders me to sit on a bench. I wait thirty minutes, while he tries to raise his higher office. I tried to imagine a positive response. “Let the old man go. He’s not an offender.” I wait. The phone rattles. The young policeman cannot raise the higher office.

Then the older policeman grows impatient. He asserts himself, he tells me, “Old man, do not do this again!” I am not quite sure what ‘this’ is. I am 63 years old. I walk out with my poem intact. I realise it will be a long time coming: a unity government? Freedom? Reading? Poetry!