Somewhere in the dark,
We found the clay pot,
My mother smiled,
Her resilience and devotion had guided us,
The good spirits were our warriors.
My mother lifted the clay pot,
She looked up at the sky,
I wondered what she was looking at,
Was it the crescent moon?
Was it the ominous darkness?
Or was she seeing something else?
My mother had always told us about elements of the night,
She told us about the good light and the bad light,
She told us about watchmen who dwell in the dark,
She told us tales about strangers lurking in the night,
She shared these stories with fascinating and frightening candour.
My mother muttered some strange words,
She turned to look at me,
She smiled and nodded,
I understood what it meant,
We journeyed back home.
She poured some oil into the clay pot,
She muttered some strange words again,
The sage had said that as soon as she poured the oil some strange words would erupt from her soul,
He said she would become a priestess,
She would become a seer,
Conveying the words of the Divine,
She told me to look into the pot,
As soon as I looked,
I felt light,
I felt different,
The sage had told us that redemption can be found when the earthly meets the supernatural.
Thompson Emate spends his leisure time on creative writing, particularly poetry and prose. He has a deep love for nature and the arts.