Court by the fireplace

This was taken from my diary, and its a true narration of what happened that evening when my grandma and some of my family members sat around the fire. What a beautiful Botswana evening. Enjoy!

“So, when are you getting married to her?” she asked, putting the logs back together and fanning them slowly.                 ............................

 I had to sit on a wooden stool to the side of a mud hut where the warmth of a smoky fire brought the family to a silent collect. Winter sunsets in Bolelatlhaga can be arrogant, but the dark outlines of cows moving slowly against the gold western skies portrayed a freedom of some sort, and the bells hanging from their necks connected high and low like harmonies of an independence song. I knew exactly where they were headed; south of the pastures, where a thick growth of acacia prickles enfolds a huge eroded plain. At the centre of this plain stands a tall mokoba tree "a sentry at night who remains on the lookout through the day.

Unlike the irritating monotony of the ticking clock in a crammed metropolitan office, the evenings of an African countryside bellow with singing birds, whistling herd-boys and the unsolved hiss from the deeper backwoods. This is one of those places where the cruelty of human interaction has not yet stripped nature of its perfect balance, at least not yet. The sky hosts a serene array of winking stars; dim, shooting, bright and loud. One can easily identify these; the atmosphere is free of smoggy petrol and factory fumes of today’s city. I can only pray that this literal meaning of nature’s autonomy may last beyond my generation.

 

My grandmother was staring into the fire, watching the brutal flames hitting the three legged pot of water to a red hot defeat. This could only mean that her mind was journeying around, and yes, I was waiting to hear what waited on the other face of the silence (as was everyone else). She leaned forward into the fire and with a small piece of wood she shook it ‘awake’. This sent a parade of sparks flying indolently before getting swallowed by dusk. “So, when are you getting married to her?” she asked, putting the logs back together and fanning them slowly. Then the fire was sternly ablaze, and I could see her eyes staring right into mine. I had to answer the question, but where did this come from??

Author's Note

This is my second piece, and its non-fictional. I'm not quite satisfied with it, i hope your reviews will help me improve it. Thanks in Advance.

Reviews

[Patricia Wedel]

dear Amantle.. I am spellbound by
the mysterious overtones in your
poetry.... stirring the fire awake
with a wooden stick... and where
did grandmother's question come from.
I adore the winking stars. Your script
receives five stars from me. truly... Pat

[Amantle Moeng]

Thank you so much Pat, 5 stars? Wow, that means a lot to me Patricia.

[Nazifa Noor]

Very very good imagery! It was fun to read and the whole time I feeling glad that I was reading it! Awesome!! :D Keep it comin'!!!

[Amantle Moeng]

Thanks Nazifa, I'll keep 'em coming!

[Lydia Shutter]

Your writing is rich in imagery and love of family. You brought us to the scene with sights, sounds, and aromas. The build up of what your grandmother would say (and your respect for her) was grand. I would not change a thing about this. I would, however, like to see more! Lydi**

[Amantle Moeng]

This means a lot to me Lydi, and yes I'll keep them coming. Thank you so much for your review!