Bra Hugh

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.”