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LET IT BE KNOWN
By LINDELWA XINGWANA

Here, in this patch and dot
We bare no marks on our skins
We have no whom of who's
My neighbours' palm readings are mine.

On this patch and dot
The sun sets, the smoke dies it beckons; now the flames come alive
We gather, and in this familiar chatter fire burns no one
My Granny and those of my friends have old wrinkled fingers,
They clutch sticks whose pangs we've all felt.

Now my granny and all her friends open their caves of wisdom
The story always begins with "Let me riddle you this:"
But no journal chronicles these tales.
She says, "Be thankful for this burden of these uncivilised pageantries
For these gatherings near these fires
For lessons learned in these riddles
Keep the sanctity of this world I cannot bear to lose.
These stories die: You perish without the roots".

No story is told these nights.

In this patch and dot
The fire is fading, the chatter is dying
The silence whispers "keep your pageantries' worth
Nurture your children in the shade of their delight
Let them be known.
Let this patch and dot be known"

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