Watching Grandpa’s Small, Quiet Eyes After Grandma’s Burial

by Thabo Jijana  

Lips ajar, words leaking

out to gather on the floor

of the teacup he cradles

on his lap. On his head

a frayed cap, the rest of

him a mere background

to a blur of gestures—no

more than when grandpa

came to the city with

grandma, already she

hobbling on creaky knees

and his walking stick

bandaged with strips of

tire-tube rubber, the blazer

worn at the elbows, as

if he’d been crawling on

the ground like my cousin

Nko, and grandma led

him inside, nothing like the

mud-thatch rondavels she

had raised 10 children in;

and in her 86-year-old voice

she asked for the toilet

and when it was pointed

out she cried, “But how

could you eat in the same

place?” and he would call us

to his bedside at night, and

tell us things we can’t think

of now—and soon it’s six in

the evening and Aunt Myola

comes into the room, speaks

softly, he speaks softly; no

final sound, but sighing.

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Thabo Jijana, whose work is informed by his rural upbringing in eastern South Africa, is a journalist by trade. He lives in Port Elizabeth, on the Eastern Cape Province.