Written piece
In Hidden Chants
Nlende Nkwelle Serena
Cameroon
About this piece
A solitary messenger wanders into a wilderness as he warns of humanity’s fall into greed. He purposefully urges a return to compassion before his voice fades into a lasting echo.
The traveller stands amidst the lions, beneath a baobab encroached to the cracked passages of the wilderness. With eyes perched, wanting, wishing, he bellows in the dread of his message. The sun holds no subtleness, its rays searing through his dark skin. His head gleams like a bowl of glazed clay. Guarded by the faint fabrics of purple and restless wear, he sweeps the sweat petals across his face. A man casting his burden as a messager, he lifts his hands to the heavens with the company of beasts, and overbearing weeds:
"Once pure, once seamed in warmth. Lands of harmonious retreats, roots bearing the arcane foundations of understanding.
Yet, like an unwavering curse, like an overflowing Calabash of poised discontentment, ornated with streaks of greed, now stands a universe obliquely misguided. Worlds torn apart, facades rooted in the curtains of innocence.
Who roars, but the beasts who see no power in man? Who wails but the very creation borne out of love, on whose shoulders lay the foundation of serenity? Who is man without man? Why has blood painted the rivers? What is the gold of the land without its master? Who has harvested from the corn fields, that dries up in the heat of nothingness?"
He spits to the ground, the lions howl in hunger.
"Hear me, habitants of this arena. The time has come. It bears the blessings of the ancestors, it holds the amulet of curses. What shall we demand? Who shall lead is? Where is man's heart? Buried in gold, or searching to heal the folds of the folks?"
He kneels into the dust, fainting into the apparel of the heat.
"A tither of love, to tether for kindness. And to the voices, the salient words of the lost and forsaken: build a bridge to the echoes of their cries. Let their voices rise like the twilight tapestry that illuminates the beauty of mysterious evergreens. And let no one say,
'You must always listen. You needn't utter much.'
Let their voices grow, for their pleas for truth and hope are like fresh palm wine. An elixir against hunger.
Hear Me! Hear Me! You must not perish! You must not devour!'
The Harmattan's whispers are loud. It must travel; for the east, the north, the west, and the south must hear. The suckling infant, the travailed soldier, the hopeful mother, the silent aged.
The lions stride, their manes glorified by Harmattan's dying whisper. He falls into the dust, his lips parted for a stolen breathe.
"Men are gods, not vile lords. Build the bridge! The children are coming!! Bring your loathe to submission. Despise the pain. Carve the pots!! Say the hymns of glory!!
Heal the people!!!!"