Ancestral Wi-Fi

The air is thick with signals,
not of towers or satellites
but of bones whispering beneath the soil.
Grandmother’s lullaby
still pings in my chest—
her voice a password
that unlocks the silence of night.

​

I scroll through memory,
each scar a hyperlink,
each dance a download
from the ancestors.

Who needs the cloud
when the sky itself
remembers our names?

​

Weaving the River

At dawn, the women carry buckets
and laughter down to the stream.
The water learns their rhythm—
hips swaying, feet humming against earth.

​

Each step braids
yesterday to tomorrow,
like kente woven on a loom of dust.

The river does not rush,
it listens.
It takes every story home,
salty, sweet, and untranslatable,
pouring it into the ocean’s open mouth.

​

City of Clay

This city was molded by hands unseen—
clay pots stacked into skylines,
market stalls breathing like drums.

​

Children chalk the pavements
with dreams of galaxies,
their chalk dust rising
like prayers refused to be quiet.

Even in the concrete,
the soil insists on returning—
a weed, a flower,
a rebellion of green.

We are the clay,
softened by rain,
hardened by fire,
shaped again and again
into tomorrow.