The sun-scorched on relentlessly, making the entire savannah a mirage. Shapes fabricated by the heat dancing to and fro. She shades her eyes with one hand, wondering if can go on any further.
She walks on, slower and slower with each step. Hand on a waist which is donned with 5 lines of fine red and white beads.
‘Chuku chuku’, they echo in their meaningless dialogue which oddly brings her comfort.
The mere sight of her belly makes her heart clench in both fear and anticipation.
He dances inside her womb, impatient to get out. Already she knows he’ll be a strong child, a mighty nation.
She tries to take another step but cries out as she crouches to the ground. He kicks furiously and furiously and for a moment she hates him for doing this to her. This impatient strong child was intent on ripping her apart. She can tell he’ll be trouble. A stubborn child, yet she feels pride. He will be strong. The first of her procreative power.
He will be strong.
She reaches down her nhembe and feels the crown of his head.
“Musikavanhu ndiwanirei nyasha,” she says to an empty blue sky.
She rocks back and forth now in her own life blood singing to herself and remembering the promise.
A virgin shall give birth. For she indeed hath not known any man, instead of carrying a child seeded by a promise. She already knows all he can be, all he will ever be. And she says a prayer for him as she waits.
Suddenly she feels it. The pull of the soil beneath her, longing to grab its child into its rich redness. The ground quivers in excitement and she can feel an intense weighing down on her womb. Mwana wevhu uyu.
She cries out one last time and he slips out. She lies back in her perspiration, skin tingling, tired.
Then she hears his cry. Strong and demanding. She pulls herself up and looks down at what she has created.
Dark skin and dark hair. His eyes stared intently at her as if he has known her all her life. As if he’s seen all she has been and all she will ever be. All she will ever go through. They gaze at each other. She feels the tug at her breasts and warmness trickling down her chest. A mother’s response to her child.
She cuts the chord that binds him to her, knowing that from here on he is his own person, no longer something she owns. She picks him up and puts him to her breast. He sucks, gaze never leaving hers.
She looks around her tempted to be daunted by her solitude in this great big world. But she must be strong. For she had just given birth to a nation.
Zimbabwe
Nehanda gathers herself and walks on.
