Our stories, like rivers,flow into a deep blue lake.
They slide past rocks and are nourished by the rain.
Our stories, like shadows, follow us into our dreams,
They are dark like our fears,
Too bold to be ignored like our tears.
They thrive on our lies and likes,
Our stories are like milk sealed in a gourd,
They are shaken, suppressed,sealed,brewed
Our stories take time to be served.
Our stories, like our dance, are refined
They can never be rehearsed.
Each footstep in line with the dust.
So, if I told you that ong’er does not sound as beautiful as monkey,
Mbura as wholesome as cat
Kibwe as musical as jackal
Meru as sweetly vulgar as your mother
You would not believe me,
I would respect that because then they would cease to be our stories.