The family battalions massed nearby
Waving their napkins of white lace
At the heat, around the flies
That hung above the pig’s glazed head
The salads, Cachupa and rice
The diverse plates, upon display
For clearly a sufficient time
To leave impression on the guests,
Removed again, we took our seats
The paterfamilias rose to his feet
Looked across to me (accusingly?) –
Young stranger, long of hair and pale
And began to take aside his girl
Mother took his elbow urgently
And whispered to him in commanding style
So every single guest could hear:
‘Sta passionado cu Zaza! ‘
And even if not quite accurate
My social shame was now complete.
I slipped down to the humid street
While up above the empty stores
They displayed the little feast once more
To honour Zaza and womanhood
As African breezes fled the sea
To play in her dark curly hair
And but for a glimpse, at the post office
From the far side of the plateau square
That was all of her I would ever see
No other messenger would bring
Invitations from her family.
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