Hamba Kahle

Siyahamba… siyahamba… (we are going… we are going…) Out of the Baltic, ship’s iron and steam Southampton grey and a third-class dream Three weeks of ocean, then the morning cloud lifts A table of stone where the cold current drifts Sawubona, mountain, I see you, I see Ostrich-feather money out in Oudtshoorn’s heat Paarl and Worcester, the vines in a row Then a reef made of gold where the Highveld winds blow Siyahamba! (we’re on the road again) Siyahamba! (another land, another name) We carried the candles, we carried the bread We built a new home where the red earth bled Siyahamba! (we’re on the road again) Dawn in the Kruger, the lion’s low call Leopard in the fever tree, watching us all Elephant crossing like a slow grey train Buffalo and rhino and the smell of the rain Fathers in the shop, sons into law Doctors and builders, we gave it our all Synagogues rising on Johannesburg stone Seventy generations, we finally found home But a wall ran through the middle of the land A pass in the pocket of a working man We knew the old story, we’d been slaves before Still we closed the gate and we locked the door Some of our own stood up in the dock Lawyers and fighters who wouldn’t be bought They went to the prisons, they went underground But most of us looked away, and never made a sound Who will carry the guilt… who will carry the shame… Comfort is a quiet room… with a stranger’s name… Thula, thula… (hush, hush…) Then the walls came down… and the bells all rang… A long walk to freedom… and the whole world sang… But freedom came with a lock on the gate Razor wire smiling on the garden wall’s face Electric fence humming the whole night through Armed response sign, “we are watching you” And the promise got sold in a back-room deal Lights going out and the stolen meal Rich land, golden land, slipping through the hand We’d seen this before in another land Then the news from the north came over the sea And they looked at our door and saw only “Zion” in me No one had touched us, no one had to The words on the campus, the paint on the shul Grandfather’s voice from a Baltic shore: “When the hatred comes back, don’t wait anymore” So we folded the flag and we fed the cat Same old suitcase. Pack your bags. That’s that. Hamba kahle! (go well, go well) Hamba kahle! (the land we loved so well) We carried the candles, we carried the bread We’re leaving a country where our fathers are dead Siyahamba! (we’re on the road again) Siyahamba! (another land, another name) Table Mountain fading… the lion’s last call… Seventy-one generations… and the road through it all… Hamba kahle.