Something caught my attention this morning while it rained–a roof beside my house, the roof of a bar. It was made of thatch. It drew beauty and locality in a perfect blend. It called Africa to my senses, that creaselessly dark, hunky, Kenyalopiticus Africanus. How we have used our heritage to wash those dogmatic feet of some foreigners.
Now there is something about desperation, a panting desire to succeed, like a deer panting after a brook, and how you can lose yourself in it. All of yourself. They most often than not work in tandem. Genuine success is like hyacinths. It flows in due tides.
There is also something about shedding, like a snake pulling out of one skin and jumping into another. It remains as it where, except for that bit of tenderness. It is re-branding or better still, adapting. It talks a lot about how we can handle our heritage, our stories. How we could dust them, peel off the stains that smear them, paint them with same colour, a glittering one, and still carry on with them.
Homo habilis was a good man. Such a good man that he didn’t lose the colour of his skin to the passing sky, nor the sound of his tongue to the howling wind, in his quest to stand upright, or to device a better means of eating his antelope. Now that’s the way to go.
Now, put your head down and consider few things; your heritage, your stories, desperation, that panting desire to succeed– at the end your heritage loses. Your stories get blown away like dusts, intangible dusts. Who our stories epp? Right? Or our heritage don bath? Right?
I wish we will all succeed, not out of desperation, and still preserve our heritage, and those beautiful African stories– how the dog became a bosom friend to my great, great, grandfather. And how Esiyandanwan, the tiniest green coloured snake, borrowed his teeth to the once teethless Cobra and never got them back.
If you like your heritage, feel free to drop your comment below.