The Zulu hunter holds his proud spear close to his chest as he nears the village with food supplies that should last for over a month.

He is not a perfect man,

Pride often tears his lungs open

He takes it out on the woman he fell in love with

Or were his limbs the perpetrators of romance?

He didn’t bother with questions of the sort… not until she walked up to him after a hard winter and whispered a new life in his ear while her womb grew it with every passing second.

As he drops the carcasses meant for feast, his bloody arms are instantly filled with a different sort of body…

This one carried his eyes and mouth, his chin, skin, blood and grin – and breathing , so calmly and confidently – he took less than a moment to say, “Nompumelelo!”

Because he felt accomplished just staring at the most perfect life one could have ever created.

These are the kinds of stories I

Make up at night when I can’t sleep and find

Myself wishing to have been that

Man who held the treasure of all that is you in his arms.

I imagine how many hearts you stole with your innocent face and that fierce personality which seems to have stayed with you like a faithful companion.

I want to return to you like a beautiful dream you haven’t been able to have in decades.

To greet you, like an early morning breeze after a drizzle – like the scent of wet soil,

Like the smell of me lingering on your fingertips as you press them to your lips in thought during a quiet lesson. Even though you reluctantly washed your hands out of necessity for the thousandth time during break.

That’s how I intend to be:

irrevocably present, persistent, penitent,passionate and pure at heart for all of the above you have always gifted me.

For teaching me what unconditional means on those hard days when you had to protect me from you , much like I had done over a decade prior.

I’m having déjà vu of writing this:

I’ve loved you all my lives.

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