Sonal Singh On Sonal's Table

When he came to, he found himself in a small thatched hut. A man was squatting next to him. In the dim light that permeated the hut, he looked quite fearsome. Tall and wiry, he seemed old even though he was not bent. His wizened face looked like it had weathered many seasons. Covered in otjize*, his skin shimmered red gold as it caught the rays of the sun that was spilling in through the crags in the thatched roof. His hair was fashioned backwards into a horn shaped braid. He was bare bodied except for a loin cloth made of sheep skin, draped around his groin. His chest was adorned with beaded necklaces. They clinked as he shifted on his haunches. A huge lion’s fang hung from a black thread and rested midway to his navel. His face was painted in shades of red, black and ash. He smiled a toothless smile, as Mbambe came awake.

Floating on a warm breeze, hope appeared My heart sang, suffused with joy, but alas, It was but a dream!   Life gained momentum, my career took flight I rejoiced, I thought I’d be free of domesticity It was but a dream!   I settled into matrimony, the kids came …

It casts a glow deep, the streetlight at the corner Like an aura it extends, intruding upon the dark. Poking, prodding, subduing the dark into submission It impinges upon the shadows lurking at the rim.   Is it my imagination? Or does the aura extend? Gradually eating away at the …