The Storyteller

Like ants scattered across the greenest of grass, in anticipation they waited for the storyteller to appear. It was a festive occasion, with laughter echoing through the valley and Table Mountain as the backdrop. LEO is sitting underneath the old oak tree watching the crowd, exchanging with sheer bliss their “tickey” of thought with one another. The excitement was tangible…

As the sun touched the horizon the storyteller appears. His attire simple, yet it spoke of a man very comfortable in his own skin. The crowd is now cheering and the atmosphere becoming more festive. The storyteller through the sound of his music tells the story of a journey, a journey of old and a journey of new. A journey of meetings and greetings. Through his whiteness, having a desire to explore his blackness he yet had to meet. The audience is captured by this man … as he shares his encounters with his many realness in the form of man. How through his music he found his blackness … becoming the voice to the voiceless. ‘Barriers’ he says, are broken when one enters a world unknown with eyes of love, a world once forgotten a world once in pain. The storyteller unlocked this door where no one ever dared to go. He embraced his blackness in a world of whiteness … giving hope to the hopeless and dreams to those, whom made a promise to never dream again. He took their hands and sheltered them in the ether and in the real. A warrior indeed yet a storyteller keeping our stories alive, the story of a country in pain and laughter. The sound of applause  shifts LEO into reality, the storyteller reappears with Madiba in hand… it’s a recording of our King in memory of him. LEO feels the goose bumps … black … white … all singing “Asimbonanga” some joining hands yet all joining spirits … this was the moment when Mandela came alive …

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