“Nayela!” Zahare’s voice rang through the house as he parted the blinds.
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No one was there to greet Nayela at the river bank. She wasn't surprised; they weren't expecting her. No one was there to greet Nayela at the river bank. She wasn't surprised; they weren't expecting her.
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The river itself gave the first signs that they were approaching the city: widening as it neared the coast, its water shifting from tea-black to murky brown.
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Zahare and Adama were deep in conversation when Nayela stepped out into the yard.
It must have been after ten o’clock; the sun was already high in the sky. But the sangoma seemed no less imposing in daylight than she had last evening.
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Ahhhhh …
So long
since I entered bone and sinew.
Tongues of flame.
Incantation.
Invitation.
If Nayela had not been rushing to catch up with Zahare—who stood waiting in the track, arms crossed and back stiff—the falling breadfruit tree branch would have knocked her flat.
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What happens when the sacred is left behind?
When memory fades but its traces linger in the soil, in our bones?