Earth Song

December 23, 2019December 22, 2019 Chris Hall7 Comments

Earth Song by Chris Hall lunasonline

Air, thick with cicada-song, rises from the veld. The three men recline on the sun-heated rocks, staring into the fire. Herb-scented smoke hangs heavily in the purple dusk. They are the tiniest specks in the timeless universe, each smaller than a newly-hatched mantis, in this, the place of the ancient ones.

Darkness closes in and the great African she-moon rises; pin-prick stars stab the violet-thick night. Still no one speaks. The older brown-skinned man carefully feeds the fire which crackles in the desiccated air.

A night-bird shrieks and, on the other side of the koppie, a hyena cackles. The young man, still fresh from the sprawling city, stares around warily. His companion turns from the fire: ‘Be still, my brother.’ The young man settles back.

The night wears on. Trance-like they stare into the fire. The young man’s eyes are heavy; he closes his eyes and tries to imagine an ancestor he’s never known.

A shadow appears on the far side of the fire. The two older men sit up, their faces bright in the firelight. The San Man has come. He lays his stick aside and squats by the fire, resting his chin on his folded hands, staring onto the flames. Still without acknowledging them, he starts to hum. The sound swells, its vibration filling the air.

Abruptly it stops.

The figure stands, takes up his stick, and beckons to them. They try to rouse their young companion, but he sleeps on.

The San Man motions them to follow.

/… to be continued

Parched Earth

December 16, 2019December 22, 2019 Chris Hall13 Comments

Parched Earth by chris hall lunasonline

‘You must call the San Man,’ she whispers. ‘Only he can bring the rain bull.’

‘But how?’

‘You must go to the cave which watches over the veld. Go at dusk, light a fire.’ She reaches into the pouch she has beside her and holds out a handful of grey-green herbs. ‘Burn a little of this; and then watch and wait.’

He raises his eyebrows at his two companions.

The old woman holds up a finger. ‘He may not come the first night,’ she shakes her head slowly. ‘He may not come at all.’ She stares intently at each of them. ‘Now go.’

The three men depart.

‘I guess it’s worth a try,’ says the first. He is a tall, robust white man, dressed in shorts and sandals; the hint of an overseas accent.

‘Another winter with no rain; we must do something,’ agrees the second, a brown-skinned man, whose features echo the ancient people that once inhabited this corner of Africa.

The third man, by far the youngest of the three is silent. He too is brown-skinned, a son of the Rainbow Nation, where a multitude of peoples have planted their seeds.

Later, the three trudge silently up to the koppie where the ancient cave paintings are. The air is hot and parched like the veld. The sky turns liquid orange as the sun is swallowed up by the smudge-blue mountains. They light the fire and sprinkle herbs onto the flames. The three settle down to watch and wait.

/…to be continued

Today is a public holiday in South Africa. The Day of Reconciliation came into effect in 1995 after the end of apartheid, with the intention of fostering reconciliation and national unity for the country.

The characters in this new story represent (some of) the different groups in this country and the story has its roots in some earlier pieces I wrote about the rain animal my mythical, mystical San Man. There is more to tell of the story.

The struggle for water is a perennial and worsening challenge in many parts of the world. It was starkly brought home to us last year when Capetonians faced ‘Day Zero’, the day when the taps would run dry. The crisis was averted, but we still cannot waste a drop and must search for other ways to bring water to the thirsty land.

Why can’t we live together?

April 23, 2019 Chris Hall4 Comments

I’d been late leaving school that afternoon. I’d stayed behind because nice Miss Leibrandt had been helping me with my poem.

On the way home I’d been kicking a can along the dirt pathway between the shacks when I heard shouting over on the main road. Then there was the explosion. Flames shot up into the air, all red and angry-looking. Black smoke billowed upwards.

My house was the other way, but I had to see. I peered out from the end of the lane. People were jumping up and down in the street, arms waving angrily. They were chanting.

Flames licked out of the little corner shop. My friend’s shop. Mr Kabongo whose skin was as black as night, who came from another country further up the map of Africa. Mr Kabongo who told me stories about the animals of the forest where he grew up and the people who lived there before the war in his country. Mr Kabongo who gave me sweets when I went to fetch a half-loaf for my mother.

And now his shop was destroyed. I wondered if he was safe. Had he run, as he’d run before?

Why can’t we all live together?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=clbqKFM5oQY