Disarmed from
intrusive thoughts, there she rests watching an article on African traditions.
At the very
heart of the jungle, a robust middle aged man sings.
Under the sound of rustic
melodies, falling drops of water, circling amongst the mountains mingles to his
voice.
The
offering of a ritual began.
A surrounding
ai-é ai-é, flies from his mouth, back to his ancestors.
The empty
space between the hollow walls of Nature’s mother, responds in an echo, which,
seems to bubble incessantly.
The ai-é ai-é, which, is been distilled by the
man's throat, resonates melodiously, compiling a sense of universal harmony.
In this
sublime moment, Lucília Augusta has the most complete certainty that all living
beings delight together in this very same sound! All united by the same
orchestra, the Nature's mother, sounds.
“My roots!”
Silently
she says.
“Now…that was
what my Silveira kept referring to! He was my predator and my saviour all at
once! He always made it clear, that I should go back to my roots. Sometimes out
of pure prejudice, but philosophically he could not have been more right.”
Lucília Augusta felt rocked by the
mystery, while mentally transferred to a world of alienated “civilizations.” - Straight into an intoxicatingly wild world, from
where she drinks, Marufo and garapa, (a traditional African fermented drink)- until
she throws up from the excess.
Violently she sobs, crying of
nostalgia for a past that could have been hers. A past of which, she had rather
experienced instead of reading of.
Heart, mind and soul, she weeps, while
hugging that part of her that is so evident in her features.
Lucília Augusta dances by, hugging herself,
feeling such a strong vibration well within, and, allows it to flood into her
soul.
Dressed in vibrantly bright colourful cloths, unconcerned
she laughs out loudly and loudly.
These are the colours of Africa, the Mother
Africa, which runs non-stopping through her veins.
Hurls her body onto the ground and on behalf
of all of the departed ones; shamelessly she covers it with soil. Then, stands
up, still dressed in rags and alone ... singing and dancing amongst the wild
mountains - by the sound of the ai-é ai-é.
She listens
selflessly to the repetition of the drums, to the repetition of the ai-é ai-é
and to the repetition of the echo. Unconsciously allows the self to merging into
it and in perfect harmony, follows its rhythm.
Still swaying by a zest of an intimate
vibration, she shudders and frees up a strange and involuntary cry.
Feeling refreshed and thirsty, barefoot
she goes to the river, and drinks water from an indigenous bowl.
Drinks it again in hollowed gourds and it
tastes like an almost unknown distant childhood.
It quenched her thirst.
It was an unnamed thirst, which always insisted
on returning to her.
Instantly she offers it a long name:
“The thirst
to know how to be. - The thirst to know
how to live. - The thirst to know who
you are!”
From now on,
this thirst will not torment her anymore. For now, it has a name.
Lucília Augusta thanked all the wise man for
their affection and for the opportunity, they gave her to; once again, touch
the ground that saw her birth.
Thanks them
again for not being alone. For not being lost. For having being
given the chance to know the name of the thirst, which always came back,
slaughtering her being and never said who it was.
The Kissange,(
African musical instrument) keeps on playing.
“I'm not
alone!” she recalls.
The Kissange!
This keeps
playing on its own! Because no fingers were capable to follow the speed of
madness, with which it moves.
“Thank you,
humanity… Thank you, humanity!”
by: Manuela trindade
