Play me a song
Nyeleti Furumele
Video Editor | African Storyteller | SAFTA nominee for Best Achievement in Editing - TV Comedy
I wrote this piece when I was going through some major anger, hurt and disgust at the senseless and inhumane things that wee happening in my country and generally all over the world. I wanted to sing a different song, a song of hope, a song of joy but the words just wouldn't come out. The anger, bitterness and eventually the simmering rage was all I cold find pushing itself out of me, so that's the song I sang...
Our country is bleeding, the streets we so casually walk on are crying out and the children still to come are fighting to stay inside. Thunder roars with warning and anger, yet still we lift our eyes to the heavens; hoping praying the sky will open up with healing and hope. At the slightest drop of water, we anxiously prepare our hearts for what is to come....
A silence so deafening our ears hurt from the sound of it. Drip...drop...drip...drop, then nothing. The rain is not coming, only the bite of the wind can be heard from all corners of the mind, you try to out run it but your feet are bleeding and your heart is anxious, still you look up pleading with the clouds to open up and envelop you in their warm embrace.
Drip...drop...drip...drop then nothing. The sound of the wind gets louder and louder, the mixture of fear and despair, an all familiar taste in your month, as the wind wraps itself around you. A tornado of emotions lifts you up of the ground, still you lift your eyes up to the heavens screaming and shouting for the rain to come....
Silence....silence...more silence; then the sandstorm subsides and the rain, (the glorious, glorious rain) finally embraces you. The voices in the rain echo loudly for all to hear then the cold hits you; your body shivers and shakes and the echoes of the rain are nothing but a distant memory. You try to remember how the mixture of salt water felt on your face, but all you can hear is the silence. The bitterly cold silence.
Our country is bleeding.
The streets echo with piercing cries of the voices of those who've found peace in with soil we so casually walk on.