She’s fixing the smudge of red on her lip that she just picked up in the rear view mirror as she checked if it was safe to throw the lukewarm dregs of leftover coffee in the paper cup out of the passenger side of her car into the bin on the corner of the street where the homeless man is searching for a leftover snack while he traps the louse that is stuck in the sweet spot between his sweaty testicle and waxy thigh that is recovering from a kick that the glue sniffing street kids gave him after calling him names when he scared off the pretty tourist in a flowing linen dress that looked like she could have given them a R50 note that was sticking out of the purse that she forgot to close after buying fresh pressed beetroot and lemon juice from the vegan store owner who just kissed his girlfriend goodbye on her way to her daily yoga class and accidentally smudged her red lipstick. I guess I can go now, the traffic light just turned green for me.
Frank Malaba is an enigma to Zimbabwe, the country of his birth. Such a distinction is not defined by his talent as a poet, artist, writer, but by his advocacy, as a gay African male. He STANDS, though persecuted, he STANDS, to love, and he speaks his truth. Malaba loves his country, but fights for his “very being.” He invites all gay Africans to stand with him, to fight for the right be treated as vital participants in African culture that deserve to be respected. His blog, Frank Malaba’s Prosetry, invites all kindred spirits to speak, love, and heal.