Weaving Wisdom and Youth

1 minutes reading time
By Gogo Isolwzee  (they/them) | sangoma, gender anarchist and pawerent queering life

the tale is as old as the granules in the sand. the hills engulf the landscape, green masking poverty with envy.  

It's almost like they speak through the 3 am gusts, winds carrying the voices of being through waters precipitated on frosted window -- this environment speaks to me.

The reverberations of yesterday's ceremony surge through and remind me that light and dark do coexist. And I go back in(to) time.

There's this mama, she speaks big talk something like a bag filled with air. She stands sturdy – a big body Benz. She bellows loud carrying a song through the ground, a gifting of sorts. She speaks and we always listen, ear to tar separating left to right and I decide where I ride. But this, she, seems like a one-track pony -- galloping to fleshes greed. Old in her on right, but forgotten are the traditions zase mandulo.

Out loud queer, different queer, queering spiritedly. 

Alone, I recoil reminding myself of my abcs, 123, imvuselo.

“Phezu ko Baba ngishaya izandla ngiyavusela” – the beat of the drum hums in my heart and the dreams that carry me back to consciousness, holding me in metaphysical realness. Often 18 assumed, we are decades above my years. 

The tale is as old as grains holding the motion of the oceans, engulfing the landscape, reminding me I'm always home.

Questions to ponder

1. How do we measure respect when you remove age?

2. How do social constructs constrict agency?

3. Where do you revive your sense of being?