Far off in the future once upon—
A lone mbulu feather blown-swirl by the wind
gently lands on the might-peak of a Hill.
There and near; an old, dry-lipped man with an-
antique stick sat beside me look-staring
in the night’s sky.
His tired voice had left him in the dark years
and days and deeds before.
The night was silent like the worlds beyond.
Nothing moved except the breath in our lungs.
Murmurs floated only in mind—
And not a jitter was observed there.
Only one soul was elsewhere in that
moment mist—
Sequestered in forbidden grounds.
The long suns had guttled what hollow life remained.
Yet the face of the forest moved, slowly still,
as the old man told all to turn a blind eye.
Deep in it, a flame soared into the air;
Far and there, the tilting trees were seized
with terror.
And the dry, cracked sands quivered
as the pregnant clouds assembled.
None had seen what despair they left behind.
I turned my head to see the Balobedu dance;
In all their cheer, only one word they
uttered far to the falling rain—
“Modjadji!”
This poem was published in the 8th Issue of PoeticAfrica magazine.
Please click here to download.
Read – Revive Orality – Trevor Mwansa (Zambia)
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