Gaborone Mall


The Mall

is an eye awakening

from the honey-heavy dew

of slumber that had settled

on its eyelashes:

the brilliant rays of the golden promises

skying the horizon.

The Mall

yawns ajar;

glassy-steel dentures open

beckon you to come-in-and-browse.

It is the tricky, sticky tongue of an adder

jetting out to catch the unsuspecting fly.

Telephones tinkling

tills clinking

with tikkie-box precision,

receiving cents sinking.

The Mall is the sound of lips:

kissing lovers, kissing brothers

pursing together into whispers of gossip;

office girls with telephone tone,

hissing in switchboard frequencies

It is the pouted lips of fat businessmen,

gaming on you to offer a smack on the cheek

before you turn the other…

It is the voice

of the Daily Newsense


Radio Botswana the station of stagnation

The Shrill voice

Of that only man

standing by the Capitol Cinema

saying sooth, prophesying

to the wind, the birds

the hustle-bustle of city Gaborone

The Mall

is the scrawny hand

of that grandma,

cracked like the disused clay-pot

or parched terrain no longer able to

support grass,

begging for Pula.


warm in her rug of poverty,

crouching against the stone-cold grey monument

leaning on memories of forgotten regiments

who fought foreign wars.

It is the nifty hand of the urchin:

Mahlalela dispossessed

picking pocket;

wealth repossessed

picking noses

pricking consciences…

The Mall is the neon twilight;

an electric eye blinking


watching you,

watching me,



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s