“Why words, when they’re so slippery?”
Whisperings find me standing
At the bridge —
Squinting through light and darkness
To see what’s left to hold as traditions change
My people forgotten or modified.
Fog lifts and I focus at double suspicion
Deity with claims to present balance
Between opposing forces.
Is he a trickster or a faithful?
For I was left with nothing but words
An oral tradition; love gently carried
From generation to generation.
Without a written word —
Will evidence perish? I fear.
Thus, with song and dance I join a world
Where the dead, living and unborn coexist
In harmony through continuity of words.
I stand at the bridge —
Not as a vessel of stories nor a praise singer
But to honour love and accept the family heirloom.
process note: I might have taken up creative writing late in life, but I come from a tradition of oral storytellers (Xhosa people), where blurred lines between history and myth exist yet feed imagination. I’ve always loved words, whether written, spoken or sung. The joy I experience when I’m writing is indescribable.
