Life through the eyes of a South African writer: ALL I COULD DO IS WRITE

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: ALL I COULD DO IS WRITE: "January the tenth, while the community of Tumahole was possessed by the unbound music that ruptured the sky’s still portrait and draped it w..."

ALL I COULD DO IS WRITE

January the tenth, while the community of Tumahole was possessed by the unbound music that ruptured the sky’s still portrait and draped it with fiery colors that leapt from torches used to celebrate a year’s infant steps; while minds ,caged in prisons of time heavily guarded by regrets, sought new gods for freedom as they sung new hymns of resolutions to the gods’ pleasure; while thoughts took on many forms so as to sculpt glittering sculptures of the future, a call that quaked my still world and sent monstrous waves down the ocean of my quiet life I answered: ‘Rantoloko, hurry to your grandmother’s house apparently she has been murdered.’

 

She was laid to rest aged eighty nine years, the second elderly women to be raped and murdered by those that worship the dark clouds that hover over my township.  My family tasted the bitter raindrops that fell from these dark clouds singing of a future that my fellow neighbors have fallen blind to.  My mind emptied of weeds of questions that profusely grow in the garden of my thoughts, I followed lullabies that sprouted from the loud mouths of emotions and I was lost in a delirium.  There I saw boys and girls plant seeds and their weakly bodies struggle to pick up the vessel used to water their seeds; I saw shadows stealthily poison the water in these vessels and work together to poison these seeds; I saw elders weary of the weight of the vessels give in and drink out of lighter vessels so as to forger and rid their bodies of the aches induced by the vessels.  I watched these seeds crookedly grow into trees bearing fruits with hatred flowing through their veins.  From everywhere I heard the few dying trees scream the message from Gaea:  ‘Warn them out of their illusive stupor brought on by the sparkling wine of youth.  Only they now possess the strength needed to bend the road away from oblivion.  Tell them to protect the elderly for they know the ingredients of ancient potions that lightened the vessels, only they still remember where the road needs to be bent to.  Protect the old spirit trees only they can teach my language, only they still remember the songs that shatter the shadows.’

 

ALL I COULD DO IS WRITE…