Phiphidi Falls
I have never seen my mother cry before. Her grief is unstoppable, cannot be hidden. It seeps through all the walls. My mother, crying for Phiphidi Falls.
I have never seen my mother cry before. Her grief is unstoppable, cannot be hidden. It seeps through all the walls. My mother, crying for Phiphidi Falls.
We are Ramunangi. For centuries, our clan has guarded these falls. The pool below and the rock above. Custodians of beauty, caretakers of culture. An Eden of water, for our ancestors to reside in. We think it a privilege to be the watchers of this water. Our prayers to the pool, recitals to the rock. Happily fulfilling our obligations, our ancestors present us with rain and peace
But now tourism has come to torture us. Bringing used condoms and beer cans. The parade of picnic debris. That cursed machine. The only yellow thing we hate. The yellow bulldozer that took a sacred rock, making way, for restaurant and chalet.
They never consulted us. They just go ahead and destroy.
LanwaDzongolo, our sacred rock, where from time passed, till time recent, we have always placed our offerings. We shall no longer walk to that waterside altar, to leave our gifts of grain and beer.
Never seen water, coming from my mothers eye. Nothing to stop it. Not all the traded gold, on all the golden stalls. My mother, crying for Phiphidi Falls.
You see, my mother is a Makhadzi. A respected senior women, entrusted to perform the Thevula – the ritual for rain. Only women. Men can and do attend, but it's the chosen women, who offer and invoke. Will the ancestors still listen, now that LanwaDzongolo is gone? My mother cries for our community. For the road we did not ask for; the chalet we'll never sleep in; the development not of our planning. Don't desert us ancestors: please watch over us Nwali.
This place of beauty, which we have cared for and cherished. There are plants and animals here, which you will not find just anywhere. We are the guardians of this greatness. Like little lighthouses on Mutshindudu River. Making libation with tobacco, our prayers never cease.
Water falls on my mothers face; it cannot seem to stop. Like a tap that doesn't turn the other way. My mother is a strong woman, but she isn't one for aggression and brawls. They say it might come to that. My mother, crying for Phiphidi Falls. This place more precious to her, than all the dresses in all the malls. My mother, crying for Phiphidi Falls.
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* © Natty Mark Samuels 2010.
* Natty Mark Samuels is a poet based in Oxford.
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