My mother said

Her abode was a symphony that rallied to depict vivacity
Amber feathers of grass stretched towards the pure cerulean
The sun seemed to pull the blades into ascent
And the breeze that graced the parched lifted their wings
To meet the lithe clouds which appeared as spoons of pap in the sky
Before they advanced to play charades with children on other plains
“The grass is my daughter’s hair”

My mother said

The water fetcher’s skin was shiny as it glistened with sweat
From the sun that kissed the toddler with gregarious lips
And bade the rancher to lie under the baobab tree for a sweet slumber
With dreams of plump mopane grubs and a pregnant wife
Equating to perfect ecstasy that springs from the uncomplicated
Known otherwise only in the cattle’s tail shooing flies away
“The shine is the twinkle in my daughter’s eye”

My mother said

The bushmen met their drums to the cadence of the elephant’s trumpet
And the echo of the plain’s silence against the giraffe’s neck
That only they and their children could distinguish
But all who gave ear to the tempo of the drums knew that they defined
The terrain from the pans to the delta to the outstretching sands
Articulating clearly the object of the African soul
“The rhythm is the pounding of my daughter’s heart”

My mother said

She did not know if I would ever encounter these realizations
Since she crossed the overwhelming ocean before my birth
Back to the cloudy sidewalks and glass windows of her genesis
Hence she ensured that I would comprehend my heritage
By identifying me with an expression of the shine of the grass
To which the drums are measured and I am composed
That in the midst of paper punching, high heels, and umbrellas
Every beckon would remind me of the source of myself with the name

Savanna Lane