I sift through the African breeze that perfumes my nostrils with the fragrance of summers, gone. The redolent aroma of coriander on the soft wind speaks of a thousand South African braais(barbecues) - my countrymen are making dinner and it’s a uniquely national thing. The skies cloud with a premonition of lightning and thunder; people scuttle to flame their dinner to perfection before the storm hits. Bats fly in an effortless aerial display that has women shying for cover, lest the bats entangle in their hair; an age-old legend that makes the swift creatures vastly unpopular.
Beetles chirp and frogs croak, nature spikes to life at dusk. There’s an echo of distant voices in the failing light - people recounting their day, people holding family court, people…
So I sit with my ever-present glass of Cabernet and wonder why I’ve been chosen, I wonder why I’ve been privy to all this charming glory; afterall my distant ancestors could so easily have taken another route, not stopped at the Cape of Good Hope and unloaded their sailing ship…they could have! But they didn’t, so this is my heritage, my country.
In the depths of the continent a lion roars, and a rhino romps across the plains, and the heart beats to the rhythm of a Zulu drum, loud and rampant.
There is no taming Africa, and I’m so glad to revel in the soul of her indomitable spirit.
Image is my own, shot with my iPad