It was an odd day when the shadow decided to take leave of its body. It was an even stranger hour; the Sun sat high in the sky, steering his chariot in its steady course towards the bosom of the Earth.
When asked why she decided to go, she merely shrugged and murmured a fragment of poetry. And so remained misunderstood; nobody really understands poetry.
The Sun beat down hard, and in his leisurely way, looked down to see what had happened. Even though he was not omniscient, he could tell that something out of the ordinary; something perfectly peculiar had happened.
She thought, Shadow did, that because she was no longer attached to her Person that she would disintegrate, that she would disappear; so her act was one of abject suicide. Peculiarly she remained a tight knot of darkness, albeit a random shape (People act as a prison, a container for all manner of darknesses; shadows are but one).
Oblivious to the Sun’s glare, she ambled to a tight cluster of shade that rested at the foot of a tree. Shadows do not speak in mortal languages; theirs is a code that predates the guttural uttering of man. Nevertheless, in her way; in the way that they shared, she enquired about life bound at the foot of a tree.
The treeshadow jerked maniacally and unfolded from its shifting the Story of Itself (and others like It). It was not a complex story, indeed it was only the revelation of a process: I am never still, intimated the treeshadow, and always, there is someone who seeks shelter in me when the Sun beats down on them.
Her curiousity somewhat abated, Shadow’s attentions quickly shifted to the birdshadows that skipped and at the same time, soared on the surface of the ground. Oh, how she wanted to ask them of their migrations! She supposed that they, too, were always in motion- though in a different way from the shadow that moved and remained irrevocably still at the foot of the tree.
The proud Sun dipped a little closer to the horizon, still with the strange inkling that something was amiss and not quite knowing what.
The clouds cast their own bilious dimness and travelled on their own journeys, adding pages to their narratives, eccentric in their not-really solidity; drifting.
Shadow’s mind turned to thoughts of the Person who was her jailer, and her closest associate. She thought of her now boundless shape and wondered how she existed so long within boundaries. She reminisced thus until the treeshadows tilted awkwardly, extremely, stretching eerily and the birdshadows fled from the swift, swooping bats.
The Sun, who had remained undeterred from his once again inevitable union with the Earth, glanced once more at the scene beneath him.
Shadow perceived an encroaching, as though her random non-shape was somehow extending out, and simultaneously magnetically attracting the Dimness. It was almost imperceptible to her, when, overcome, engulfed by Night, she finally attained sweet Death.
The Sun set, oblivious.
©Ngozi Chukura 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
ordinary
a strange flower grew in the same garden as the roses and petunias. it was not pretty like them. so nobody picked it.
so it grew thick and dark and thorny without a care. this flower. did not colour its petals obscenely to attract the bees. or other flying insects. or walking ones.
it did not aspire to the vase.
or the lapelle. or the head of hair. it knew that its destiny was not a beautiful, utilitarian death. but an ordinary one.
it was satisfied with its life of plainness and obscurity.
so it grew thick and dark and thorny without a care. this flower. did not colour its petals obscenely to attract the bees. or other flying insects. or walking ones.
it did not aspire to the vase.
or the lapelle. or the head of hair. it knew that its destiny was not a beautiful, utilitarian death. but an ordinary one.
it was satisfied with its life of plainness and obscurity.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
words in the city
Friday, September 3, 2010
Untitled (I Wash My Mother's Hair)
I wash my mother’s hair. I have always done this; it has been our ritual since I had the strength to. She has not cut it since before I was born, so it is long. It has not been chemically processed, so it is kinky; soft when wet, but unmanageable, tightly coiled, once the deepest black, now white, streaked with silver.
She tells me about our family, the story of how she came to be who she is. “A woman’s work is hard”, Mama says, as I wash her hair. “We are the bearers of life, as well as the harbingers of death.” I am young, when tells me this. I don’t understand. I am too young to know the responsibility, the power that women hold over the material portals; that we are the portals between Earth and the Divine. “You will see,” she says, “when you have your own daughter.”
Our family is full of women; there are an equal number of males and females; but the women’s presence is somehow bigger. The kitchens of the various aunts are always full of stories and warm bodies making food, and love and babies, and then sharing recipes.
I am brown, like my mother, but a deeper variation. My father’s eyes, his compassion and his ‘bigger picture’ reasoning are more ingrained in me than her elements. I know the love of my father, the love from my father. He is a wonderful man. He has loved my mother since they met. He tells me the story all the time. How they met in a room with humming conversations as their score. She performed a poem that night. He thought she was the most beautiful and dangerous thing he had seen. They spoke briefly and then carried on with their lives.
Mother’s story is much more dramatic. “I have loved one other man,” she says, as my fingers massage her scalp, I try not to get the foam in her ears. “Your father was different. He was the one who I allowed to conjoin with my power”. (She speaks like this, my mother, in riddles and mystical phrases). “When you meet a man, you need to summon patience; only time will tell whether or not he is worthy to have you as the conduit for his subtle elements. Many men are dark hearted, selfish brutes. But not your dad, no (She smiles, here). He is filled with a light that I was unable to take my eyes off, when I met him. I still can’t.” And then a girlish titter gargles from her, and there are no lines on her face, her hair isn’t grey: she is twenty five and alive with fire.
“When a man loves you, you can feel it. It makes you always turn to him. You feel comfortable enough to want him in the wet, warm throbbing way that only his woman can. You welcome him home to you deep inside of yourself. You smell his skin and taste his sweat and bask in the vibration of his groaning”. I thought understood this; I had seen this on television sometimes. It made me a little embarrassed, watching other people this way. I could never think of my parents in this way, they are woven together; they are more tightly bound than just that. Their relationship isn’t mundane. Papa is my mother’s friend. They do things together, they are inseparable.
My parents were my anchor. I came to learn that home is not a place with walls or mortar; home is the sound of a voice, repeating a verse. It is Dad rubbing his gruff beard into your giggling palm, the smell of butternut soup creaming on the stove, the tight kink of Mama’s hair and the wet of lather and water. It is the lull in her voice; her meter, the way she speaks in parables. It is the way he said no, or remembering how much sugar he takes in his rooibos.
©Ngozi Chukura 2010
She tells me about our family, the story of how she came to be who she is. “A woman’s work is hard”, Mama says, as I wash her hair. “We are the bearers of life, as well as the harbingers of death.” I am young, when tells me this. I don’t understand. I am too young to know the responsibility, the power that women hold over the material portals; that we are the portals between Earth and the Divine. “You will see,” she says, “when you have your own daughter.”
Our family is full of women; there are an equal number of males and females; but the women’s presence is somehow bigger. The kitchens of the various aunts are always full of stories and warm bodies making food, and love and babies, and then sharing recipes.
I am brown, like my mother, but a deeper variation. My father’s eyes, his compassion and his ‘bigger picture’ reasoning are more ingrained in me than her elements. I know the love of my father, the love from my father. He is a wonderful man. He has loved my mother since they met. He tells me the story all the time. How they met in a room with humming conversations as their score. She performed a poem that night. He thought she was the most beautiful and dangerous thing he had seen. They spoke briefly and then carried on with their lives.
Mother’s story is much more dramatic. “I have loved one other man,” she says, as my fingers massage her scalp, I try not to get the foam in her ears. “Your father was different. He was the one who I allowed to conjoin with my power”. (She speaks like this, my mother, in riddles and mystical phrases). “When you meet a man, you need to summon patience; only time will tell whether or not he is worthy to have you as the conduit for his subtle elements. Many men are dark hearted, selfish brutes. But not your dad, no (She smiles, here). He is filled with a light that I was unable to take my eyes off, when I met him. I still can’t.” And then a girlish titter gargles from her, and there are no lines on her face, her hair isn’t grey: she is twenty five and alive with fire.
“When a man loves you, you can feel it. It makes you always turn to him. You feel comfortable enough to want him in the wet, warm throbbing way that only his woman can. You welcome him home to you deep inside of yourself. You smell his skin and taste his sweat and bask in the vibration of his groaning”. I thought understood this; I had seen this on television sometimes. It made me a little embarrassed, watching other people this way. I could never think of my parents in this way, they are woven together; they are more tightly bound than just that. Their relationship isn’t mundane. Papa is my mother’s friend. They do things together, they are inseparable.
My parents were my anchor. I came to learn that home is not a place with walls or mortar; home is the sound of a voice, repeating a verse. It is Dad rubbing his gruff beard into your giggling palm, the smell of butternut soup creaming on the stove, the tight kink of Mama’s hair and the wet of lather and water. It is the lull in her voice; her meter, the way she speaks in parables. It is the way he said no, or remembering how much sugar he takes in his rooibos.
©Ngozi Chukura 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
the sound of spring
the sound of
birds, a chill, a smudge of orange
light on the horizon.
leaves stirring in a slight
breeze.
the smell of summer, even underneath
the chill.
some insect, tittering.
the brightest stars, left shining
the flowers are still asleep
skeletal trees reaching
and of course, the standard cockrel,
crowing.
the feeling; how I wish my view of sky wasn’t
truncated by perimeters.
salmon fades into blue;
the blue that has always been
there, hidden by the moon.
spiky trees against the horizon; fuzzy trees
and crisp- leaved trees.
the odd rumble of a car, nearby; or far
away.
conversations between birds, and
visibility; i can see the colours in the
trees, and flowers.
then, the bite in the air
that heralds the sun.
if only i had a horizon, unimpeded!
dirty orange and the brown of sand.
the challenge, the space between
mind and hand.
a bird, black against the sky,
and now,
the day has begun.
©ngozi chukura 2010
birds, a chill, a smudge of orange
light on the horizon.
leaves stirring in a slight
breeze.
the smell of summer, even underneath
the chill.
some insect, tittering.
the brightest stars, left shining
the flowers are still asleep
skeletal trees reaching
and of course, the standard cockrel,
crowing.
the feeling; how I wish my view of sky wasn’t
truncated by perimeters.
salmon fades into blue;
the blue that has always been
there, hidden by the moon.
spiky trees against the horizon; fuzzy trees
and crisp- leaved trees.
the odd rumble of a car, nearby; or far
away.
conversations between birds, and
visibility; i can see the colours in the
trees, and flowers.
then, the bite in the air
that heralds the sun.
if only i had a horizon, unimpeded!
dirty orange and the brown of sand.
the challenge, the space between
mind and hand.
a bird, black against the sky,
and now,
the day has begun.
©ngozi chukura 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Bathtime
Bathtime. A very short story.
She thought, as she brushed her teeth: the girl cannot be separated from the mother. They are unified in their Womanness. Their surety and insecurity.
She was born in a bath; slithered smooth and covered in life juice. Rudely pushed from her warm; silent space. Awakened. Her mother used to laugh, “it was almost as if you didn’t want to come out-you were in there for ten whole months!” as if ‘in there’ was somehow dislocated from her own body. So there she was; an overripe fruit. Mushy and slippery. Reluctant. She carried this reluctance with her, through her childhood; her adolescence. “That’s not unusual”, her mother used to say, “even though our innate nature never changes, we tend to change our minds, at intervals”. She wondered about “innate nature”, as a child. It consumed her, pushed the spaces in her mind apart as it took root. An indefinable Something Significant pushing, growing.
She spat out the frothy, minty, “twice as white” toothpaste, and rinsed her mouth out, swirling lukewarm water around her mouth, under her tongue; gargling. She rinsed her mouth out. She turned off the taps, and stepped into the scalding bath water. As she lowered her bottom half into the bath, the water level rose a little. It settled, wavy, just under her breasts: twin peaks, rising out of a hot sea.
©Ngozi Chukura
She thought, as she brushed her teeth: the girl cannot be separated from the mother. They are unified in their Womanness. Their surety and insecurity.
She was born in a bath; slithered smooth and covered in life juice. Rudely pushed from her warm; silent space. Awakened. Her mother used to laugh, “it was almost as if you didn’t want to come out-you were in there for ten whole months!” as if ‘in there’ was somehow dislocated from her own body. So there she was; an overripe fruit. Mushy and slippery. Reluctant. She carried this reluctance with her, through her childhood; her adolescence. “That’s not unusual”, her mother used to say, “even though our innate nature never changes, we tend to change our minds, at intervals”. She wondered about “innate nature”, as a child. It consumed her, pushed the spaces in her mind apart as it took root. An indefinable Something Significant pushing, growing.
She spat out the frothy, minty, “twice as white” toothpaste, and rinsed her mouth out, swirling lukewarm water around her mouth, under her tongue; gargling. She rinsed her mouth out. She turned off the taps, and stepped into the scalding bath water. As she lowered her bottom half into the bath, the water level rose a little. It settled, wavy, just under her breasts: twin peaks, rising out of a hot sea.
©Ngozi Chukura
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