He used to return home at dusk

with a sack of maize on his back

smelling of sweat and dirt.

He would sit on the veranda

his back against the wall

with beads of sweat on his forehead

fall from his eyebrows.

He used to drink water from the steel glass as

he wiped his sweat from the forehead.

Each day, I would wonder on my way to school

when I walked past My Grandpas’ three scarecrows

in the middle of maize field, their ripped

red-shirts, their worn-out jute hat

and their torn black trousers flapping in the breeze.