I,
without certainty of reasons compelling me to think of ‘places of dying’, write
in wonderment of the death blows that drew breath from our heroes’ bodies, from
Nat Turner to Chief Albert Luthuli, Lumumba and the Craddock Four; and Tom
Barrows whose body was buried and a tree planted upon the grave. I wonder about
the expressions of the dying, contused faces and bloated final grimaces.
Dismembered bodies described in Confessions of Nat Turner nightmarishly dancing
to the thumping of a rhythm or gnashing of jaws, montages of autopsy
photographs of Biko never seen but through the soul’s eye – and I, merely
wondering if my flesh was not crafted from their charred bones.
Below are
some photographs, and a poem that spells a million notes in the hymn that
speaks for places beyond my eyes. I felt to share these with friends, children,
partners and parents, in the hope that a series of similar photographs of other
places will be posted soon for remembrance. It is as this September Moon wades
its last of chariots towards the horizon exaltation of Saturn that thoughts of martyrs flood my mind, and so do
their revered souls as described by Birago Diop in “Spirits”. The Zodiac of
Justice calls from ashen graves, I guess; but will there ever be penance for
the inhumanity that leers its face among immeasurable stars that fell?
Listen to
Things
More
often than Beings,
Hear the
voice of fire,
Hear the
voice of water.
Listen in
the wind,
To the
sighs of the bush;
This is
the ancestors breathing.
Those who
are dead are not ever gone;
They are
in the darkness that grows lighter
And in
the darkness that grows darker.
The dead
are not down in the earth;
They are
in the trembling of the trees
In the
groaning of the woods,
In the
water that runs,
In the
water that sleeps,
They are
in the hut, they are in the crowd:
The dead
are not dead.
Listen to
things
More
often than beings,
Hear the
voice of fire,
Hear the
voice of water.
Listen in
the wind,
To the
bush that is sighing:
This is
the breathing of ancestors,
Who have
not gone away
Who are
not under earth
Who are
not really dead.
Those who
are dead are not ever gone;
They are
in a woman’s breast,
In the
wailing of a child,
And the
burning of a log,
In the
moaning rock,
In the
weeping grasses,
In the
forest and the home.
The dead
are not dead.
Listen
more often
To Things
than to Beings,
Hear the
voice of fire,
Hear the
voice of water.
Listen in
the wind to
The bush
that is sobbing:
This is
the ancestors breathing.
Each day
they renew ancient bonds,
Ancient
bonds that hold fast
Binding
our lot to their law,
To the
will of the spirits stronger than we
To the
spell of our dead who are not really dead,
Whose
covenant binds us to life,
Whose
authority binds to their will,
The will
of the spirits that stir
In the
bed of the river, on the banks of the river,
The
breathing of spirits
Who moan
in the rocks and weep in the grasses.
Spirits
inhabit
The
darkness that lightens, the darkness that darkens,
The
quivering tree, the murmuring wood,
The water
that runs and the water that sleeps:
Spirits
much stronger than we,
The
breathing of the dead who are not really dead,
Of the
dead who are not really gone,
Of the
dead now no more in the earth.
Listen to
Things
More
often than Beings,
Hear the
voice of fire,
Hear the
voice of water.
Listen in
the wind,
To the
bush that is sobbing:
This is
the ancestors, breathing.
Source:
The Negritude Poets,
ed. Ellen Conroy Kennedy. New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1989.
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