In Africa’s old stories,
I have another name,
the bird that listens to the earth.
When villages fall asleep,
when the ground awakens,
we are the ones
who know the hour.
When a snake moves beneath the soil,
when the wind mixes
with the footsteps of the dead,
that sound arrives first
in my bones.
That is why
we never walk alone.
Africa says:
“A guinea fowl that walks alone
will lose its way to the soul.”
Our dotted bodies
are not mere patterns.
Each spot
is a story.
An ancestor’s eye.
A memory
from a forgotten age.
In some tribes,
when a new house is built,
we are released first
at its doorstep.
Because it is we
who ask the earth
whether the house is accepted.
If our voice
feels like a disturbance to you,
it means only this,
we are reminding you
of something
you have forgotten to hear.
When we call,
the village becomes alert.
When we fall silent,
the elders grow afraid.
Because in African belief,
a silent guinea fowl
is waiting for
something
far greater than fear.
When you look at me,
you see
only a bird.
But the earth looks at me
as a guardian.
That is why I speak,
not to you,
but to the unseen world
moving
around you.
