Note No. 3

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
– EE CUMMINGS, ‘SOMEWHERE I HAVE NEVER TRAVELED’

July 2020

It is perhaps strange, Bongi, how, when the cacophony of life has faded and the rushed sensations of work, the commute, a young daughter demanding attention, the ever-vibrating pocket phone have subsided into the relative silence of age and exile, the memories so long subdued peek out from their slumber and rub their eyes to look upon one once more. Thus it is here in my dark London bedsit, when the memory of how we first met returns to me.

You have forgotten how we met! I know you would say. But that is not true. We have recounted the story so many times to friends, comrades, family, to our daughter, that I know it by rote. That is the problem – by rote, automated recall. But the memory, the picture, the texture, the sounds long gone into hibernation are suddenly freed by this wintry silence.

I feel first your presence sitting, through no intention of either of us, next to me in Conway Hall in London as we wait for Oliver Tambo to address us in January 1981 on the 69th anniversary of the founding of our Movement. I feel your presence first, a warmth, a naturalness, an ease. I notice your slender arm and tiny hand resting on your left thigh alongside me, with the broad bangle with the colours of the earth of our home, blending with the brown sheen of your skin.

The sounds of exile, you said, at first to no one, but then you turned to me. You smiled and nodded your head toward the stage where the ANC choir had just finished. I have always denied that that was the moment I fell in love with you, maintained that love came later, but now the sleepy-eyed memory insists that it was.