I am a collection of stories woven through generations
Scores of men and women I do not remember
Yet stare back at me in the curved mirror of my cheek
to the dip of my full upper lip.
You can hear the ancestral song in the sound of my voice
Echoing in the depth of my laugh
I am the library of unsung heroes
Each chapter revealing glory formed from the dirt
Of grandmothers who turn molten to charcoal to offer at the altar of the old gods
Of grandfathers who whisper tales by firelight to the beat of an unseen drum.
The chants rise up into the sky
Melody a sacrifice as the fireflies and flames carry away the un-translated prayers to the Mother
Makewana we call her, mother of all children of the soil
The high priestess who dances the rain down from the clouds
Conduit of the immortal and protector of her own
The serpent slithers at her feet as she hisses blessings in response
She smiles at me, her lost offspring, and sings
Remember child that even if they have erased me, you are all of us
The fullness of your lips speaks of many a song that your fathers learnt at my altar
The arch in your lower back shall remind them we have carried many a burden but remain unbroken
The power in your thighs has ridden many a beast and tamed many a foe.
Young one,
You are a collection of stories woven through countless generations
Scores of men and women you will never remember
But in your mirror, you will find each of us hidden in the darkness of your skin.
I am, yet not quite
I am not yet all she whispers I will be
The mud of her first children will birth skyscrapers in the wake of our youth
The silent prayers will find home in ink, bibliographies on display for each curious child
Our colours will splash across the canvas of this rich soil
Our kentes and chitenjes woven into the fabrics donned by kings and queens in the East and West alike
Boats that carried away brothers shall return with pilgrims to our sacred land
The forgotten warriors will rise anew with their weapons hidden in song and dance
We will use words and knowledge as they once did axe and hoe, pestle and mortar
These new gardens exist at our fingertips, each key stroke a seed waiting to be planted
Our medicine men armed with new wisdom shall breathe life back into shattered bodies
The image of a dying child erased by rebirth and young ones with enough to share during the rain festivals
Her drums beat and I hear the cries of the new-born
Her eyes hold secrets in them, her smile is knowing, I have seen enough
The chants are a hum beneath the concrete
Her prophecies a sigh in the wind, their certainty hidden beneath the yawn of a brand-new day
She is the sacrifice at the altar; the incense rises and carries our hopes heavenward
Her parting gift is the knowledge that she is not gone, she is me, she is you, and she is us
I am a collection of stories still being woven into generations yet to come
Scores of men and women you cannot help but remember
Young one, do you not know? Our history is yet to be written.
Responses