Dear Sarah
While you queue for mealie meal and sugar, struggle to get morphine for your bed ridden son, as you run away from police brutality and watch from afar the burning hut that was once home, I stand vigil after long hours at the old people’s home in Bristol, while your husband cuddles my bosom dreaming away the hours …and the nightmare of missing the route 41 tram for a shift at the mental hospital, I read another sms from you, desperate— this time- Junior’s morphine please, no medicines in hospitals— urgent.
I delete the message before he wakes up to another shift which awaits him
and you wait for a reply that will never come.
Yours Hagar.