Mother Africa

Mother - Mother Africa - l’Afrique! Blackness, somehow, somewhere, feels like it belongs inside of me. Africa. I am this graceful, powerful and proud black woman on the bus, with a long neck, and chiselled face. She sits in front of me, yet I am her. In me there is a rhythm, a pulse, a recognition, a figure that is attuned to the black nations. Naked feet in the sand, toes gathering the sand in between, digging the heal into the mud, cracking the nut open with a swift move, gathering seeds with long strident moves - my hands -  and arching my body to reach out for the bundle, swaying along the path, a watchful open eye. Grace and beauty, silent waiting. The eyes tell stories of the distant past, I can wait. The rain drums onto the tin roof and I wait. An animal moans, I hear the breathing of the child. An insect crawls over the pots and pans. The night is long. I wait. The day will come. Sometimes my Ugandan friend morphed into that graceful black woman, appearing out of nowhere, at dusk, balancing her babe on her hip and jingling her bracelet made out of chestnuts. She, mother of one, looked after my babies and bravely ventured to the park with the three of them, when they were barely old enough to walk. She comes from a land where lots of children, twins, are regarded as a gift from the heavens, a sign of super fertility, a sign of luck and good health.