Seven.

ZiwuSeven maz’phelele. Index finger in the air, thumb at 90 degrees. Right angles for holy fractals. Two digits forming sacred geometries to say, this many days till I see you again. This way light splits and fractures and breaks itself in this many ways. This many centuries since they came and dispossessed. The biblical number of spiritual perfection. The stamp that brands every work of God. For He looked upon it, and saw that it was good. Seven.

 ZiwuSeven maz’phelele. The layers on the skirt of Yemaja. The horsemen of the rapocalypse in Loxion Kulcha and round neck tee’s marking them “NOT GUILTY”. The Black man is always a suspect. Senyaka rapping on Jabulani MC. MM Deluxe, an organ player and the son of a preacher man. A woman called Red shaving her head in the music video. Another woman in red singing about the lotto. Before she channels Busi Mhlongo and Brenda Fassie, Lebo Mathosa crooning in the chorus, “Eugene. Mandla. Zayne. Jairos.” The Peace Loving Brothers pulled over by the Metro on the side of the road, while the St Stithian kids urge us to take it easy. Seven.

 Seven for poly-syllabic symphonies and dirges. For the ones we put in the ground and the others who tried to bury us there. For Lazarus syndromes and innumerbale premature autopsies. Seven.

 ZiwuSeven maz’phelele. Wearing iDelela because mas’dakiwe sikhaba amabodlela. The deadly sins. The purifying seas in bottles on the windowsill. The chakras. When pointed up, Makhendlas stirring the skies turbulent; when forward, a number as an accusation, a denial by Alaska. 7-up for passion. For Vum Vum and Of Love and Kwaito. For fullfillingnesses first finale, to the brim and spilling over. For languages invented when the lexicon can not longer suffice. Seven

 Seven for finding us when we were wonting. Seven for everywhere you are still; under the dense shade of the sun, in the adjunct where street meets street, on top of the pelagic convex of a roof, at the scene of serenity where billboards carve up the sky into selling places. Seven.

 ZiwuSeven maziphele. The grandchildren of the witchdoctor’s son. For Kwaito’s karma, both obvious and obfuscated at the same time. For hope at an under-hyped 80 beats per minutes. For minutes. For moments. For monuments. Seven.

— Produced for Keleketla!Library’s That’ icover Orchestra