Red Dust
Mama’s memories of home keep her connected to the past.
The sweet recollection of palm wine filled calabash flash to the forefront.
The faint flickers of stars fade
And the sun begins to kiss the sky.
At the break of dawn
Fatima gentle lulls her babies from their slumber.
Together, their songs of pray gravitate towards the heavens.
Silence marks the end of their devotion
And the beginning of a new day.
Decades later and a little less
ceremonious,
The call to pray became a part of my own memories.
Men and women graze overgrown soccer fields.
Guttural and almost primal sounds
Emit from the depths of their souls.
They are in conversation with their maker.
I find myself privy to their deepest desires and
Shuffled past quickly. Like a thief in the night,
Clocked by the darkness, I take with me these in secrecy.
Mama mentioned longs hours in the market
The smell of smoked fish wafts its way from her stall
Tantalising the men soaked in sweat from their shifts.
Hands blackened from searching for coal,
They eagerly approach her
Eyes wide like men who have seen gold.
Soles rooted to the ground, she stands firm, ready to receive them.
Her feet have stood the test of time
They have carried the weight of the world.
Heat from the afternoon sun saturates the air around us.
My feet, aching from the impact of the concrete pavement
Gradually and collect a coat of red dust.
Purpose, passion, and palaver are all one and the same.
They drive the masses to mayhem everyday
Prices, products, and produce
Their chants clashes against the others in a cacophony of chaos as
They compete for sales in an endless sea of stalls.
Repetitive and unrelenting; a mediation on the market
Mama loved nice things, and she has plenty.
Mountains, valleys, rolling seas, gold, diamond, rubies.
She tells me to adorn myself with her most beautiful jewels,
Sample the richest cocoa and soak in her sun rays.
She says “Eat well my child and do not worry about tomorrow.
Mangos trees still lines the streets
So that many generations will get a taste of sweetness
With these fruit trees, there is always food to eat”
She believes all things holy are meant to be free.
Mama also believed the best things come in pairs of threes.
The Soil, The Seed, The Stem; a holy trinity.
I asked them, “what happened to the fruit trees that lines the streets?”
I tried to pick the mangos mama said would be left for me
but many arrived before me leaving it barren with nothing but branches and leaves
I came home to sow the seed mama had saved for me
They told me; the soil was not free, nor did it belong to me.
They said to me “sorry madam”, but this land is not yours to keep
I replied, so you’d rather break the stem before it can become a tree”
Mama’s memories, and my own coalesce into particles of red dust
Her past and my present become our creation
Collectively crafting our means for liberation.
I celebrate mama.
Her children watch her grow stronger and wiser in spirit.
Her divinity is sought after by those who try to claim her
But mama cannot be contained. She is vast, and expansive.
She is mama, she is source, she is the birth of all things.
She is us. She is we. She is me.