Our people say that whatever weighs you down is what you hold on.
They have been through many seasons, our people, but still their words have never moved their sons and daughters into living. For how could they have known that war, deceit, time and self would build a bridge so vast that even their sons and daughters would never behold each other?
I wonder what they’d say if they knew what happened with Salama.
For there are tales of sorrow and those of sheer evil and Salama’s is one that tops what the devil would claim as his masterpiece. It is told when the world is silent, when the leopards come out to hunt and the hyenas stay close by…laughing, awaiting a tasty meal.
Salama was born when the time was right.
Her skin was coal, her eyes, the moon and her touch, a soft whisper of the evening wind. Wherever she went, eyes widened, glances turned into stares and those who knew her have never answered one question…why, why it happened to her and most of all, who did it?
So, when I look back, I see her in strokes of color, splashes of blue, sparks and splotches of orange…a spark that died too soon and when I finally come to know of the woman she might have been…I think of forgiveness…our people say that they forgiven are the lucky ones, the ones who understand rebirth…in Salama’s case, I wonder, who are the forgiven?