Democratic Republic of Congo 08 Sep 2017 07:44
You are confusing the circulatory system with this maze of meandering, twisted like cells of the brain – wire meshes and tangles, resemble memory – each with a story to hide or to be dissolved, there just behind a gauze suspended between the face and the hanging ceiling, hanging between the faces and walls.
You do not know if they are roots or hair those that sink in water, and in the sky – in the sky from where the water is more than any imagined Africa.
The sky of thick foliage, of dry logs as your crosses and you do not know if they are branches or knots of hair braiding those who see blacks under the smoky clouds. There are more signs on the ground and more signs on the water that on the blackboard, which does not pass the history of your steps, but one of the steps of foreigners on your land.
A whirlpool in the lazy river as you sleep. A run in the tall grass, cutting edges. A jump and a heavy bag on your head, the water reflects other water and the tree grows from your shoulders, soon broken up by life that your father has left the crooked stick.
This is a Story
As every story, it’s made by Moments, Instants, People, Places.
Different but indissolubly tied together by invisible and indivisible light threads.
It’s not a tale of Africa but it’s a story of Men, or of a single Man.
It’s the tale of a centuries-old Tree with its roots - the wrinkled and strong arms of an old lady- searching for life in the depths of the river.
It’s the story of a Woman who stretches the same roots to the sky as if to contrast a law of nature.
In Africa there’s nothing that doesn’t come into being from the earth and nothing that’s not raised towards the sky that dominates everything.
It’s the tale of a River that flows for thousands of years in a land that’s fighting for his identity for a thousands of years.
It’s the same River that carries along life and death, the end and the beginning.
A River able to nurture, a River able to kill.
It’s the tale of many Men leaving in search of something that doesn’t have a name yet.
It’s the tale of a Color in which all the colors are alike, the story of an escape towards places so far away, drawn in a map by Red Soil and where all the paths come together.
It’s the tale of a Red Soil that stains your feet and goes inside you
It goes deep into your blood and fires it up.
And it’s useless to wash your body in the river at the end of the day: the Red Soil has left a mark on everything you have and everything you are.
It’s the tale of a Disease without a cure.
It’s the tale of a Rain that comes from the silence of a blue sky and with a din fills the buckets of the village.
It’s the tale of many other Tales.
It's the story of those who live and consume that Land.
It’s the story of who has being worn out by that Land.
And it’s also the tale of a Mondele, a White Man.
A tale of the moment in which he asked to himself: “What if I was born here?”
And then he understood the only possible answer: “I am Africa”.