Does Africa have a song of me?

by Nick van der Leek

Do we, when the sun shines, ask for more light? When the cold of winter bites, do we draw back our gowns for the cold to bite and bruise our white skins? Can we see, in the black faces, the song and dance of Africa? And does Africa have a song of me?

I fear that I have become lost in my grief, in my adventures, in my running. I’ve been wrapped in desires and distractions, some more meaningful than others, but none – or maybe too few – majestic.
Is this occasional obsession, with goddesses, with tall leggy women, with glamour, with powerful, heartbreaking beauty, a shadow, a glimpse at the broken prince, who sits on the corner, in frogs clothing, peddling second hand shoes, and grubby oranges?

In the deep vaults of the human heart there are secrets, and I have mine. There are mountains, and my mountains are mine own, and only for me to know. I will not take you there, or dare to share, who wondered with me in my heart, once upon a spring or shattered afternoon. No, you cannot come where I am going.
We may find ourselves, at last, on our mountain peaks, casting away a handkerchief of dreams, a scrap of paper with a scrawled and faded prayer. Below us the ocean crawls small and vast and powerful – the swallower of dreams, the engulfer of storms and passions and swimmers. Perhaps all this that we do, perhaps all it is is love, or power, or some specific design or desire. When we cast it aside, when we let it go, it pursues us in return.

The world has its great winds, the spirit of the world, which flows through us, flees from our fingertips, like butterfly wings, and frost, on blades of grass.
But the wind can also haunt our steps, when we betray ourselves.

Perhaps when once we flexed our muscles, or dazzled with a smile, or unbuttoned our bosoms and let them wobble against the cool warm light of a room, or against leaves – the world shook, fell, cracked, lay crushed between eggshells on a bench. Perhaps it is not too soon or too late to stretch our fingers, pull on the cape, and walk the street with a steady stride, breath leaving plumes of heated air, shoulders shaking off snow, breasts held tautly in place nipples pressed hard against gauze – the body (most of it) wrapped under a dark impenetrable veil. Power that is concealed is like a sun beneath a horizon. There is more in bed, imbedded in the alter ego, than we imagine.

Perhaps when all the world has shaken and quaked, when the seasons falter, and our own systems have become torn and shredded, perhaps our hearts will still be broken, and still be as unyielding as rock. In the cracks, beneath the veil, the creepers grow, and life spreads, like dawn over a bold and bleak horizon.

And when the silvery moon yields to the fresh light of day, we will see the fierce and beautiful light of the sun in all its power. Like a brides face opened to the light of the world, it will flow into us, as the chorus of crickets melts into the sizzle of other insects. We will stand alive, where millions before us have died. And we will continue. Fingers will lock through the hands of another’s even more delicate digits. Lock. And beyond, beneath this bolt will be the grass, that has stood and whistled and whispered as my legs have pistoned by. Trees that have worshipped the sky, did not look down as I ran or drove over their roots. Cliffs and beaches have felt the pads of my feet. And the wind that felt the hot and cold breath off my tongue, snaking from nose, breathed on.

I am watching the water dance over my hand, as I drink it. I am feeling the velvety touch of mince on my tongue. I am letting the wine sink into my cheeks, and flow for a moment between my teeth. I pause for long enough to see an insect walk a few steps. And now, when the sun shines, I watch it paint the whole world in loving light. It’s not eternal sunshine, but now the light is us, and our time is now.