THE POET

As I muse upon the early days of my life in Africa, I feel the undulating waves of rhythm, harmony, and unison.  Yet, as may seem an oxymoron, it was discordant unity.  The hearts of African people beat as one; they had scarce to speak, as they worked on roads, in mines, in homes, tending the house and children of the white man, as they were one in thought, in purpose in destiny. In bringing forty or fifty black people together into one vicinity, to one meeting hall, all one strange “brother” or “sister” would have to do was strike up one note of one line of one song, and soon they would all be singing in three part harmony, the walls ringing with the soulful sounds so distinctive, of Africa, my love.  These people were bound together with one goal; to be free, as God intended all men should be.

This was a freedom from oppression, from a slavery of the mind, of the heart.  I lived in South Africa, in the days of Apartheid, when the originators of “the plan” kept anyone void of white pigmentation, from voting, from having a say.  They were united, but not free, no, never free, until 1994, on that glorious day, when Nelson Mandela became president. 

As I read the words penned by my bard, my friend, I am carried back to these days in Africa, and can hear the rhythm in his pen, feel the beat of his drum, hear the cry of desperation, to tranquility and back again.  He transports me from ecstasy, in the moment he writes about how a man should love a woman, two hearts beating as one.  He speaks of love, of peace, of war and of conflict.  I believe he has the true heart of Africa beating in him, the heart of conflict, of ambiguity, just as we all do, good fighting against evil, joy over sadness, present fighting to gain hold over the past.

As I scan my inbox, for a glimpse of him across the “room”, I wonder what he will have to say to me tonight.  For, when he speaks, I feel as though I am alone in a crowded room, in a cocoon, alone with him, as his words fall onto my starving ears, and eagerly awaiting heart.  Will he tell of love or hate, of Satan or God, of freedom or bondage?  Will the words fall easily on my psyche, or will I have to take time to decipher from which direction his heart was speaking? 

He is a contradiction in terms.  He stirs and awakens my senses, when he speaks of the union that can come from perfect understanding, from stillness, from two hearts that beat as one, in perfect surrender to the needs and desires of the other.  Conversely, he kindles ire into full-blown flames, longing to lash out, in his story of bondage to Satan, depicted in the story of a woman who is enslaved by her need of him, and what he has to offer, although she knows it will only lead to death and destruction in the end. 

I know these words do not fall easily from him; he struggles, as does one in times of desperation, as a bomb ready to explode, inspiration the only key to the door.  Then, to let it out as it is in his heart takes as much time and energy as a surgeon working his magic on the heart of an infant, to make sure every detail is in order so that this baby will bring sunshine to those around her.

Cry, shout, weep, scorn, my friend.  For whatever you have to say will be as nectar of the gods to parched lips in a desert.  I will drink and eagerly await the next drop. You inebriate my senses, but just until I need the next fix; please never stop, I am addicted.

For Dobie, graymatter