The Letter That Refused to Write Itself

i wanted to write you a letter, fellow pilgrim,

to explain to you this feeling i have, this sojourn i am taking,

to capture the beautiful emotions of this discovery

to spin this story, to tell it softly, tenderly

like a griot

perhaps i would have explained to you

about thum and si ni sisi

for these songs transported me to my ancestors

my ebony-black body streaming with sweat

my feet thumping the ground, resurrecting african rhythm

bonfire lit, the orange hue suffused with night vigour

i will then shake my legs, coaxing the jingle to woo the night

my ostrich feather, like antennae, connecting to the wavelength of my people

the rhythm rising in my body, the tune hitting up the back of my head

every other part of my body attuned to the moment

how will i capture these emotions?

i have been to these hills before, at night,

i would stare down at the sleeping village

in the darkness, i discover myself, my essence

the whisper of the hills is so strange

not a bellow, not a command, just a whisper

and in the morning, the same hills remain aloof

as if they never eavesdropped to me last night!

but every night, we commune silently,

however much i try to write a letter to you

these feelings, these emotions escape me

sometimes some experiences are

best left to the wise counsels of the hills.