The Garden of Panotii

The madala says I should look into the memaginor, that mystical mirror

that invites listening along the large ellipse; the mirror into which we reflect


and chip away the sediment of sleep to reveal memory, deep memory

that makes truth plain. In the memaginor the listening spirit sees a window


to everything – the wanted garden that stretches without end, no walls,

where possibility hangs invitingly, large morula ripe to feed our walking;


where vision flows in diamond streams; where we can peek into impala lilies

to see reflections of our days to come, memories of greatness already done,


dreams that sprout like baobab from the earth at the touching of the sun –

memagination: memories and imagination rolled into one. From darkness


we look through the mirror into a window to see our land flooded with

light. In this mirror-window our eyes are open, alien structures fractured


to invite wisdom, deeper listening – our ears metaphors for the pursuit

of truth, for they are always hungry, always foraging in wonder, never shut.


I accept the madala’s challenge and look deep into the memaginor until

listening comes. I see families with onyx skins walk hand in hand, steps


leaving behind golden prints; I see men from Mogadishu to Libreville, from

Mthatha to Tunis put down their flags, their fears and gather to pour libations.


Our mothers and fathers rise in power from the ocean floors of the Atlantic,

the Indian, the trails of blood that criss-cross the Sahara sprout fountains


and rolling fields of mangoes, pineapple, jackfruit and pawpaw. I hear

the earth singing again, songs of our sisters, drumbeats of our brothers.


I look deeper into the mirror, my ears awake to ripples, the source of life

that knows the movement of tectonic shoulder blades and the rearrangement


of genes; I come to know what the mountains know, the map to the wanted,

the Garden of Panotii, whose centre-piece is the Great Ear. This is our time,


the time to re-enter the Garden of Panotti, the garden of plenty, the garden

of listening, the garden of knowing what the mountains know, what we


have always known. We all should look into the memaginor, to see and hear

what I have seen and heard, for there we will rediscover ourselves, our home.