Angola–in review
(7/15/10)
There is a tree in Kuito.
Just one of many.
It stands
next to a silver street-
light, in front of a salmon building.
In ’98, when the rebels brought
their bullets and their danger,
the tree could not really leave.
A tree has roots,
after all.
I saw this tree once as a child.
It stood up straight, eyeing
the street it faced
like a man surveying property, consider-
ing a purchase.
And it flowered then:
white blossoms stretching across
dark foliage like one of Songo’s smiles.
Its limbs–every joint and sinew–spread
like a teacher greeting small pupils.
Today, I saw this site again.
The house looked much the same.
Only later I learned of its facelift. Apparently,
dark sockets had marred the facade,
tiny caves where the rebels
had mined a new matter.
The eyesores, though, had since been filled
with plaster and given
a membrane of pink paint.
The building did not war-
rant a second glance.
To the naked eye, only the streetlight
contained proof of the past once pending,
something we visitors pictured
through the lenses of our dig-
ital cameras and our dark sunglasses.
The pole had been shot straight through,
its shell peeled back where some point-
ed attempt at power and control
had not stuck. We put our fingers to the holes, unable
to accept, as Thomas had, simply upon sight,
this story from another world. But the street-
light still functions as it always
has, oblivious to all but the way it looks. It is
mostly empty, after all. There is little there
that could take a bullet.
Still, it was through one of these holes that
the point of viewing this site was narrowed.
Through the aperture, I spied the tree,
up to now unnoticed.
I placed myself before it.
The tree was not the same. It
had turned away from the street,
its torso twisted, its strong back
a shield from horrors now historic.
I looked up.
Its arms, still raised, were bent. I
could not see if it was shading its eyes
from the sun, scratching its forehead thoughtfully,
or cupping the back of its cranium like a prisoner
being led under guard.
But I spotted two white blossoms (with two black
irises) peeking down at me through the leaves. I
cannot quite express what soul I saw
within. They were the only
flowers I found:
The sun glared at me oppressively, and I
was forced to lower my eyes, now burned
red. I put my hands upon the tree, feel-
ing its skin like a blind
man.
The tree had no holes like its neighbors. What
wounds were once created by shrapnel
or the rebels’ rifles had since closed, covered
by bark that revealed nothing–as if nothing
had happened.
But something had.
And something remains.
And whatever thoughts and feelings
reflect inside the tree
are not mine to relay.
I can only imagine what
sadness seeped in when
the tree realized the advancing
tanks wore the same hues
of green and brown,
what pain processed itself viscerally as
the nightmare unfolded, what peace
(or trepidation) lingers in these moments of
the woken morn, blood-
shot but not buried.
A mettle is embedded within, undisclosed
even until the tree lives
no longer, poisoned by its past
or practiced at living a life de-
spite it.
We moved on,
our attention short.
Whether I will return to see
the tree again is uncertain. But
I will not forget:
There is a tree in Kuito.
Just one of many.
It stands
next to a silver street-
light, in front of a salmon building.
for everything which is yes 