in visions of the water, they wear blue or white jasi, their faces turned toward the sun. The last time, it was a woman, her gaze downward, adorned in a white sphika with a blue cross on it. The colors shift with the landscapes: yellow regalia on the mountain, green in the cage.
They say wena ohamba nezithunywa, wena o hamba noMnguni, umndau, abalozi, namakhosi. Wena o hamba na bogogo na bomkhulu.
They say why do the beads sing their ancient song around your neck? What sacrifice beckons, like a lamb to the altar of remembrance? What mysteries unfold, woven from the threads of your visions? What is the prophecy this time around? in the sanctuary of the church of Zion, why do your feet tremble to the hymns, why does your heart ache with a deep, wordless screaming? Why does your voice or do their voices crack?
Khuluma phela Gogo! Khuluma Mkhulu!
They say listen wena ngwana wa nkhono, to the drum, the singing, the clapping and the stomping of the feet—what ancient wisdom do they awaken within you?