Life through the eyes of a South African writer: Life through the eyes of a South African writer: A...

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: Life through the eyes of a South African writer: A...: "Life through the eyes of a South African writer: Africa, the burial ground of creativity: 'Guarded by thin concrete walls deemed brave enoug..."

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: Africa, the burial ground of creativity

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: Africa, the burial ground of creativity: "Guarded by thin concrete walls deemed brave enough to stand images catapulted by strong flexible Afrikan tongues into empty child-like space..."

Africa, the burial ground of creativity

Guarded by thin concrete walls deemed brave enough to stand images catapulted by strong flexible Afrikan tongues into empty child-like spaces that played willing canvasses for the wandering minds, I sat.  Mind wandering through unnamed forests of memories where proud trees held blazing images, embodying colourful acrobatic emotions, as their fruits.  Guarded from growling Jozi streets angered by the weighty bodies propelled by ambitions of find pots of gold at the end of fading rainbows painted by aged brushes now retired to enjoy the comforts of the paradise island of nostalgia.

 

Nostrils charmed by the dancing air draped in aromas of lively coffee beans dancing to the eternal mantra hummed by the air-conditioner in attempts to rid the air of bad energies and moans of shoes tormented by memories of heavy rains now reduced to mere myths by the smoldering heat, I sat among the audience; the audience with ears standing upright and open like waking flowers ready to receive rays of life from the loving heart of the golden Afrikan Sun.   Their minds ready to tour dreams of those with spirits endowed with jewels from the treasure chest of dreams dreamt by a resting Afrika awaiting imagination to rouse it back to wakefulness.

 

The first stood; a songstress with locks like scrolls carrying the ancient writings of the sun; with eyes hiding behind heavy looking spectacles.  The guitar shyly trembled as she caressed its strings and notes of appreciation strolled out of its hollow, circular mouth; enchanting melodies leapt out of her and our enthralled spirits listened.  All else faded and only her music came to life, bearing echoes of the music that cushions Afrika’s unending dreams.

 

In that trance state thought well taught in Africa’s inherited babbles recorded by sanity asked: ‘But where does she fit in Africa’s music industry?’

 

Only after the marching stars had appeared and disappeared twice upon the naked canvass of the sky did the spirit answer, as if emerging from a deep meditation where Es’kia Mphahlele’s spirit teaches:

 

‘Africa is a burial ground for creativity, only Afrika dreams magical spaces ample enough to exhibit the works from sons and daughters of forgotten gods. Many know Africa, yet many have yet to meet Afrika.’

 

Son of forgotten gods!