By: Mpumelelo Macheke
Behind the curtain of miracle, the infinite beauty of creation commences. Organs, spirit, soul and narrative imbued by the quintessence of purpose- packed in confines of skin that echoes the names of humanities whom fought for your existence. A name is earned and substitutes a halo. You were created for me, and I for you.
I remember this time with a cancer in my joy. It masticates the pride that eats the best of me , preparing the deathbed of retrospection for me to pass away in. It repatriates me back to existence. An exile of my own reality. I’m waned by the pursuit of nostalgia. I succumb to the pain in my memory that has barked for recognition.
I mourn the time of times A time when the art of partnership existed in the presence of reality. The time when your mother was my ‘vetkoek’ queen- my salvation in the winter. The time when my father beheld your dreams- humming songs of his struggle, guiding you to sleep. When your grandmother collected us and sat us on her knees while she nodded warmly, giving credence to our juvenile dreams. When your illness was my obligation prepare the best batch of pastries and care. The time when my funeral was your tear to shed. A time of times The times of all time
We’ve close our eyes, and surmount our hearts. We’ve chosen to stand by the uncertainty of synthetic solitude. We’ve turned dependency into a sibling of exploitation. We’ve taught ourselves that the power of partnership is a battle, thus love will always be pain. We crumble under the pressure of failure when we deny our strength in cacophonous laughter. How is it possible to decide the fate of our happiness when we’ve been divinely designed to procure honey from the mouths of one another? Two equations of flesh come together in the name of seeking salvation in understanding. It is who we are. Not what we think we can be.
So , hold my hand. Help me reclaim the power of partnership.