As the dark shadows of the Acacia trees fly by, I look deep beyond the trees. I know they are there. I can not see them. But I can smell that, they are there.
Wood fires flickering in the shadows of the trees, clouds of smoke hanging over the trees.
It is them. The ones, we leave behind. The ones, that fall before us. The ones, that fail to walk with us.
I wonder how, they feel. Living with us, yet apart from us.
More than half a century of our independent Nation-States existence, beyond the dark shadows of the Acacia trees, they still dwell no different from Shaka Zulu times. The despair, the feelings of being forgotten, must be unbearable.
For they see us. In the night, they do not have to search the shadows of the trees to see us. We live apart from them, in a world where stars dance in our ceilings.
Pity. And we call ourselves human.
Just reflections of the dichotomy of our existence. Melancholia, bleeds the soul. For, I never know how to say sorry. Neither can I imagine, dwelling beyond the dark shadows of the Acacia trees.
Ora pro nobis.
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Mentations of a night travel to Siavonga - July 28, 2022
