Griot.

It is Mbongi Village’s most anticipated night we sat in rows of semicircles.

Young and old from all neighboring compounds and clans assembling in Gogo Shangu’s roofless mud house ,sitting quietly around the Hearth . The moon complimenting the beautiful scatter of constellations.

Even stars were out to indulge on the unfolding art of storytelling, the narrative art bridging the gaps of cultural divides,linguistics and trampling the notion of age segregation.

“An oil lamp is proud to give light although it wears itself off” Gogo will begin inbetween gulps of her sorghum beer,like most of her wisdom oozing stories began with a proverb .

Studying patiently our awe struck faces sweat puddling on her wrinkles. Her sudden silence thickening the apprehension from one face to another her eyes darted, the mud room steaming with anticipation ,bare;unconcealed.

We could feel it brush against our skins shrouding our curiosities with warmth,settling among us like a fog of a charged vapor mist.

Then she will smile ,slowly moving to rekindle the fire,patiently poking at the crackling logs to evoke the strength of the flames. Sitting back to quietly admire the power of oxygen in combustion. As if her passion of expressing is fueled by the glow of the embers, her lenses flicker a familiar glisten.
Refilling her Ukhamba in a slow ,careful manner.

As if to prolong the anticipation now smothering us,then.. she will continue ,teleporting our inquisitive minds in a cockpit psyche of a Griot.

The tides of passion visibly pulsing in her arteries,her oratory gestures and facial expressions cloaking her every phrase with emphasis

,ethics, values and articulated wisdom. Carried effortlessly on the echoes of her bold resonant voice,

Now forever embedded deep in our subconsciousness to echo in our lives long when she is no longer there to teach us,

..gifting us an eternal aptitude to heal with a universal remedy rooted solely in memories.

Long ,deep in the depths of the artistic sorcery..

We’d sit there with our mouths hanging agape, eyes protruding.

Our diaphragms heaving with loud palpitations,

…quietly resurfacing from the heightening climax as it finally reaches the peak. Slowly sloping down the inclined resolution, enchanted by the sorcery in her conveying. Caught in both the suspense and the embellish world of our Oracle narrator, respectively fitting ourselves in the shoes of the protagonist,taking chimerical steps down to our personally preferred predicted denouement…

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Broody Hen

The Narrative

Poetry Anthology

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