Born
here,
down
south,
in
Witbank,
born
into this land, obsessed
with
the hue
of
the skin.
But
the seed of greatness was planted,
all
that Trevor did, was help with a trumpet.
Thereafter,
you blew the whole wide world
away,
on
your own, always a man
standing
his ground
unbound
by the strictures
of
society, or a system:
“I
am, not afraid.”
Along
came:
Kippie,
Abdullah, Jonas.
Later
on:
Harry,
Fela, Miriam, and much, much later Ray and Paul,
Graceland,
and
somewhere, in between the fame,
came
the often, not so empty glass,
and
the battle with the bottle.
A generation
could weep to the sound
of
the sad blues in you,
a revolution
could rise, could dance
to
the trumpet triumph of a new dawn.
Still
grazing,
the
timer,
reluctant
to age,
always
an ear eager for a new twist to a note.
Bra
Hugh,
death
is a malignant cell,
hiding,
undetected,
grazing
in the grass.
Bra
Hugh,
death
is a slow train creeping up on us.
Bra
Hugh,
life
is a sold-out concert
a crazy
jam session,
“Home
is where the music is.”
