This is my song to you who would not read the meaning in my heart; who would not see the depth in my eyes; who would not hear the silent music of my limbs: you, who turned your back on my smile and a deaf ear to my plea. This is my song to you who robbed me of my youth and hung it on a dry tree for the vultures to peck at, bleeding with love for you.

– Charles Mungoshi: Walking still. The Singer at the Wedding

Pedzainhamo uneasily returned to his senses as the vehicle was coming to a stop, almost jolting him awake. It was time to walk to the terminal to catch the next taxi to his destination. The world for the most part was strange and he the alien he felt. It mattered little what the surrounding environment looked like, in his mind it was all the same: same despair, suffering and pain and he was tired of speaking about it. For now, that was the only necessary description and he had no use for making paintings out of words so the surrounding place, perhaps much like Pedzainhamo, would remain a mystery of sorts deeply embedded and diligently captured in memory. Besides, what really mattered was the place that felt like home, but till then, or rather until he’d make the return back to where he came from, the world was like a kind of limbo he’d have to navigate, figure out his path, maybe find or make his own – and soon, because of late the anxiety had been overwhelming.

On some days there was amusement in this strange world. He’d come to appreciate people’s follies and the trivial things in life people cling onto as what makes them human. In fact, he himself had recently been involved in one such experience, in his mind, it was part of what made the journey perhaps more meaningful and valuable. This thought comforting and temporarily joyous could nonetheless outweigh the gaping world and uncertainty that crashed relentlessly upon his senses. And with that Pedzainhamo went on about his route, aiming to remain as inconspicuous as possible – for some reason his head sometimes felt like a layered crown with rings around it that people just stared at. He walked swiftly as if to get away from the idea that he couldn’t do anything to help the scene and people around him, almost as if Pedzainhamo no longer felt anything and was keen to get from this limbo into the next – the taxi waiting by the coming terminus. The limbo was deadly, and haunting with its silent nightmares and silent screams that silently stabbed and cut the mind only to leave it at the verge of breaking. He breathed deeply – as if one breathes to pray, for stillness, and calm. Pedzainhamo felt as his frontal lobe pulsed like a bubble waiting to explode and sometimes the pressure was too intense and then, he really thought his head would explode. But tears only swelled up in his eyes and he felt an immense sadness: they came and gathered like how clouds come and approach with a story of their own to tell. But the clouds never tell their story as if their own weight is too heavy to carry. Maybe that’s why they gather in darkness to convey meaning in their grey silence. The tears stung his eyes. They never quite seemed to fall though, like the clouds they always seemed to remain etched in an almost forgotten memory, drawn or pulled by forces not of their own making, carrying unseen burdens across generations but nonetheless present in what felt like an ‘other’ time, held securely, and by what he wasn’t yet sure. After further thought and reflection he also realised how it was all cyclical. A kind of mocking-amusement. And he knew he’d long for those frivolities, those too were etched somewhere on whatever path he’d have to find or choose. He’d also have to find perhaps somewhat less insulting words for what he found and still called trivial and frivolous.

He looked ahead, blinked and walked on. Pedzainhamo recalled a song that had played in his head a few days ago in one such event of walking from one limbo into another. When he first heard it he couldn’t recall ever hearing the song, yet the tune sounded familiar like a tone recognisable in distant memory or the calm air and vague uncertainty; new heartbreak that will sink into an ancient memory bank of collective pain or like a tune which ceaselessly seemed to always ask ‘who is going to dance to my beat?’ It sounded like familiarity of age but only older – that accompanied by the gentle feel of the wind blowing against your skin. The smile of the song was as warm as it was deceptive, coy and sly yet still coming across as being neutral and offering compassion and understanding. Maybe it’s why the song sounded familiar. Pedzainhamo remembered how the song rose from deep below, a place far he was yet to go but he always had the remarkable feeling that the place was not too distant, as if it always knocked and he simply chose to not answer. This dwelling, deeply cavern, has been the site of a hundred storms, and a hundred more winters and dry winds: it had weathered the coldest nights and stinging winds which, will dry tears before they fall carrying them away in the wind. In this place the sun had remained only to freeze any promise of rich and moist fruit; the sun didn’t burn anymore it just bit, and itched into your eyes painfully. But this place was also home. It is where the first voices of creation sprung up, the doorway home. And sweeter voices were yet to sing to him still, like the unheard sweet sound of sea-shells. For the song of the first voices of creation held the promise of life and they told a story of its beauty, joy and wonder, those voices held the truth of meaning not agonising but that carrying a kind of content, indifferent. They were the voices of old mothers and fathers – the first parents of old. But on that day it was a different song that sprung up and filled the emptiness in his mind from the hollow pits within him, and it wasn’t particularly sweet. Being as attentive as possible, he listened as the song within told tales of the soil. How the Earth watched its children swallow themselves into an emptiness unknown to the Earth’s core and grew bitter. It took it as a crime committed against itself and grew vengeful. And the soil does not forget. The soil wept dry tears as brown turned to red and its silent cries could no longer be heard in the storms or the howling winds, the soil’s blood was only felt by the wind which carried the dust that hit the faces of old women and children. Time grew still and the soil had no more dry tears to give so it carried itself away into the empty plains where the wind has ceased to exist.

As the song sung itself, Pedzainhamo managed to make the song’s rhythmic beat, yet it was for the most part wordless, with no lyrics. The closest thing to the latter that he heard were indecipherable grunts which were almost convulsive, as if trying to say the words, was too painful an act to endure and the closest thing to saying the words was a struggling grunt. One could say the song was characterised as a midway between wailing and silent cries. It was either that or crying completely. How amazing that something so light and weightless could bear and carry so heavy a burden in sound. Yet the song in all its screaming agony was also a silent smile, its message heavy whilst holding lighter days.

Pedzainhamo felt his mood changing. His pace softened just as he reached the terminus and the song stopped with his feet. The minibus – also known as a combi or taxi – was nearly full and there were a few empty seats in the last row, and one other empty seat on the row on his immediate left. An old woman was seated in that row, and because he’d be getting off soon he was conflicted between asking her to move over, or cause a minor spectacle when he’d have to get off. He attempted an imploring look towards her, and as if reading his confliction, she looked up at him and he wasn’t sure if she was squinting or her eyes were just narrowed. Smiling she said ‘Magogo must move soon enough anyway for the taxi to fill up’. Her logic though correct wasn’t the reasoning behind his inhibition, but he accepted it without question and attempted a smile, whilst noticing her small teeth and round face, and remarked to himself that she’s lovely. She began moving and he immediately regretted it. ‘Ooh my back. All the ironing’ she began. The woman was clad in a checked pink dress with a white belt and fitting doek – the stock domestic worker’s uniform. Each of her slow movements were accompanied with grimaces and groans. The passengers in front chimed ‘hai gogo. You must leave all that work for the young ones.’ In that short space of time which seemed longer than it really was she’d reached the window seat and Pedzainhamo took the seat next to her as the pang of guilt subsided, but only to resurface in another form: there was perhaps what may be called an undue sense of entitlement, which made him associate this old woman as a carrier of some unspoken wisdom. Of course he could easily choke it up to some kind of intuitive justification which made him want to draw out whatever grains of truth. There was a comforting, warm and gentle silence he felt as he sat next to her. He anticipated a conversation would soon follow – she was eying him inquisitively, so he made to make the most of the remaining moment; the old woman’s smile was still in his mind and he recalled her small sharp teeth which made for a charming smile. They sat in silence for a while longer, and she examined him momentarily, breathing deeply to regain her breath whilst studying the boy with a fixed steady gaze as her upper body rose and fell gently with each of her intake and silent exhales of air. The taxi had already started and begun to move before she asked: ‘are you coming from work or school?’ ‘From school’ he answered. It wasn’t the truth. He had hardly been to any lectures for the most part of the year and that was putting it modestly. But to him he wasn’t necessarily being dishonest: how he saw it and interpreted her question, was as an attempt to primarily classify this young man – him – in either the camp of worker or student, rather than seek out his true point of departure. And for that purpose it wouldn’t have made sense to say he was coming from a friend’s place, plus it also meant more explaining to do, which given the mood and perhaps Pedzainhamo’s predispositions was a bit of a stretch. Maybe the beard really does make a difference he mused. The following conversation was the mundane short exchange of where, what, and his year of study. With confirmation that he had read her question correctly, he then thought of asking a follow up question to be polite. Of course he couldn’t simply ask the reciprocal of her question as the uniform had made that quite clear, and remembering earlier remarks about all the ironing and her back, he pitied her and very quickly remembered his own grandmother who used to make the same complaints. He looked ahead at the road, at the passengers in front, who had been very silent and so far it was only his and the old woman’s voice that had filled the quiet in the taxi. The guilt that he had felt earlier, and now the trip down memory lane, were not going to be spared; failing to think of something to ask in return, he remained silent whilst she began. ‘I have four children. All of them went to university and they all have their degrees. I am now looking after their children. Education is very important. I keep telling the young ones that. Now my job is to make sure the little ones home I’m looking after finish school.’ He didn’t ask all the questions which had jumped up at him with each of her statements, the way she had said it, had revealed the answers and held the truth perhaps more than any explanation she could give to his questions possibly could. So they sat and remained in silence. Whatever pity left was drowned as he recalled her small sharp teeth and that smile which bestowed some sort of kindness, a kind of knowing, certainty. Maybe it comes with age. The song’s presence returned, this time around it was silent with no rhythmic beat, but its lyrics were slowly beginning to take form.

The remainder of the journey continued in silence until it was time to get off, he looked at her and said ‘it was nice meeting you’ and he meant it. She smiled once more, and he felt lighter as he got off. He started walking again. Everything that had moulded what he called his reality flooded in front of him – its defining characteristics over and above general suffering and pain which had already become banal, which he dared class as general, all came crashing in front of him and he could do nothing else but helplessly walk on, and maybe not helplessly. Pedzainhamo, the name, means ‘end the suffering’. The lyrics of the song, the flood, floated in front of him. Every word clear. As much as this reality was illusory in some sense, there was also no escaping it – he was for all intents and purposes embodied and fixed in it, just as much as there was no separating the mind from the body, from the social order and thus from space and time. He had to function inside that social context in whatever path he would take. Even his name embodied him definitively in the world he found himself in. He contemplated the idea of ending the suffering, came to realise that the alienation and the process of dis-alienation was connected to the way in which society was constructed, and that inevitably, the entire epistemology would have to be defined in terms of reality, meaning, being, and becoming. This was easy to understand, to accept even. It just meant that his return, could not be at the exclusion of the world around him, and that ultimately meant others.

And the only thing that gave him conviction in what some may be right to call self-righteousness, was that song, the first voices of creation. Pedzainhamo on one occasion had on some level answered that call, visited that deeply cavern place. And it was there that he walked into the cave, which for the most part looked like a garden, with its walls covered in tree branches and the ceiling above adorned with green leaves. The floor was brown and warm, the Earth was firm and soft and as he walked into that cave in his mind he felt the presence of peace. At the end of the cave was a bright tunnel of light, almost like a doorway of sorts. As he walked on he felt a joy, the voices he heard told a story. And theirs was of creation, they were the first to sing of life, that of the unheard. They told him it was home, that he’d found home – these were the voices of his mothers. All the questions he had begun to dissolve in this sun-coloured bliss. He looked at the tunnel of light at the end of the cave but in all its whiteness he also saw a deep void, a silent nothingness. The light void was deceptively dull. It was the truth of emptiness that he’d come to know. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go further as yet, or at least the cave-garden was enough for now. He listened further to the voices of old. They spoke but sung so sweetly and charmingly, very seductively he listened. He caught a few words about how things were – used to be. About the way of life. But they kept on saying how glad they were that he’d found the cave, that he came back. He had answered the call.

There was joy in knowing, receiving some validation, of dignity, life, a kind of freedom.

No sooner had the idea of finally having answered the call deep within, and how that had finally led him to this place, he turned on his left and saw a golden snake shaped like a cobra curled up on a ledge. It looked harmless and even amidst his own fear of snakes Pedzainhamo managed to see that it was beautiful. This did not stop him from retreating slightly, and he made to leave the cave. He darted, expertly, and was soon climbing up the tree logs up towards the entrance of the deep cave. The snake trailed behind softly not wanting him to leave, or perhaps just to bite him. He made to climb quicker and the snake shot its head up towards his leg quicker.

When Pedzainhamo reflected on this one occasion he realised how strangely he had behaved: why had he made to leave when he had essentially found home? The kind of peace and content he’d been looking for, the validation, belonging, life, freedom? He knew he did not want to go there as yet but he was glad he’d found the cave, answered the call. He was glad to have heard the first voices of creation, to hear their stories and their songs. His heart ached when the anxiety returned, it had in fact doubled and so too had the need to find his path once more, or anew. Maybe both. Especially in light of the fact that he had finally got to experience a fulfilment of one of his deepest yearnings – home, a knowledge of his own humanity, and an even deeper unspoken knowledge that he couldn’t describe about life itself and existence for his kind and their role and purpose in creation. In that cave he found an unspoken meaning, the holes that had plagued him since birth had been filled: to know and hear the source of life and creation, an unconditional acceptance and love. Why did he leave, he kept wondering, having essentially given the proverbial middle finger to the world and declared he was done with this shit.  But maybe he’d also come into the cave without necessarily having done all he should have, or could have: understanding this world and making himself better.

He would need to speak of the suffering and the pain, dig up those stories and flesh out old wounds. It would be a journey of sorts back to the cave, and his own journey back and growth would be the only way of returning. Pedzainhamo would have to learn to function within the existing social order and be optimal at it, in so doing necessarily have to bring others with to the cave whether by showing or collectively helping find where it is, changing the social order which made for the alienation and suffering possible, until the first voices of creation could sing out once more of joy and beauty.

So Pedzainhamo began to tell himself that soon, he’d make some sort of resolution to tell those stories. Tell his own story painful as it may be or hard to remember. And perhaps more importantly, create new ones to remind others and those like him, of their own beauty and worth beyond words, and of the journey back to life, joy, beauty, humanity and finally a kind of content in that dull void of light, emptiness and nothing. He’d resolve also to follow through in however way he could to help the suffering of others. To change himself and grow, learn. What mattered was not necessarily how or when, but that he didn’t let the limbo drown him in despair, not remain static and stuck in the underbelly of existence for too long – dungeons were worth going into if you came out having learnt what you needed to because sometimes you don’t come out. It maybe also did not matter how he ranked and what hierarchy these resolutions would be in, for he also knew the forces of creation and life itself would follow and help in whatever he’d apply his efforts in, so long as it was not only for his good, but of others and the world too. For it is in seeing our lives in others, that we really begin to truly see, what we must and want to change.