The Boader

I step off the bus. My feet greeted by Zimbabwean soil. I take a fresh breathe of a foreign land. Behind me is my country, Separated by a fence. I look ahead to a new plain, That welcomes me with a beautiful sunrise, And a gentle breeze Hinting of adventures to come. Refreshment to my journey. I reach for my passport. ‘South Africans at this counter please!’ I join in the queue, Passport stamped, Goods declared, Bags are searched. Beggars pester weary travellers. Hands emerge flashing notes, With a quite whisper ‘A thousand dollars for one rand’ Women cry for good confiscated, Now to return home with bags empty No food to feed a starving family, And as the chickens roam Picking at the dust, For the first time I feel that I am in Africa.