Song of the Nu Chwezi

by Joseph Willrich Lutalo scribe bio

Published by NuScribes (nuscribes.com) on Wed 10 Feb, 2016 |

Book Cover Art

This is a poem (or song), celebrating and highlighting the grandeur, mystique, beauty and simplicity of that primitive, ancient Africa now lost to the modern mind.

It tells a story, but also makes a call; to those who would wish to see humanity regain its lost, ancient spirit and wisdom, to awaken and summon in their own hearts, that great spirit we could once be.

The poem was written by an elder and teacher of the Nu Chwezi, NX.

Song of the Nu Chwezi

Oh my dead Africa!

How I still seek you like

The lion seeks the Zebra.

 

I feel like I would die

And no, I can't lie;

If you ever totally disappear

I swear these villages will surely get dry.

 

I miss the fireplace rhymes;

Barbaric tales of our ancient times,

As we sat and listened,

Imagining and creating with our minds

Vivid beasts, warriors and lands

Enjoying each primitive episode,

With genuine chills and smiles.

 

I recall the trips to the well;

Oh, beautiful girls without dress,

Donning pots and moving with grace;

Firm breasts, gorgeous curves and natural hair

Oh, we've since bid them farewell.

 

I miss the terror

Of trekking in jungles full of error,

In pursuit of adventure like the storyteller.

Now I only sit before these screens

My bones growing limp from disuse

And the abuse of cheap food

That robs me of life,

In this concrete jail I call home

And where even the beasts can not survive.

 

Oh, how we used to scream

Over mountaintops and from across the stream

Sometimes beating those echoing drums

To communicate with the unseen.

Now all we have is these keys

And insipid dreams of things we've already seen.

 

I miss the thrill of coming of age

Earning my place besides the sage;

By experiencing mystery and pain

As we hunted for the food we ate,

Learning to relate to,

The living sunshine and rain.

 

Yes, we still do try to impress

And win the hearts of the women we crave

But how we've lost the drama and art

And instead fallen prey

To useless materialistic craze.

 

We used to have to fight,

Hunt immense beasts in the wake of night.

We used to jump over cattle heads,

Get circumcised without a tear in the eyes.

 

We used to yell or

Compose and sing compelling tales.

We used to wait, under scorching sun or in the rain,

For when we could grab the woman we crave,

And declare our manly victory gained.

 

When we would age

We'd celebrate and retell our grueling tales;

Share wisdom, evidenced by our scars,

Balding heads and hair gone gray.

 

The young dames,

Would get instructed about useful shame,

How to feed and nurture their fragile babes,

And prospering with each passing season of grain.

 

They would master the secrets of their bed,

Learning to mesmerize and keep

The rib that chose to dwell in their crib.

 

They would sing songs that entrap the soul,

Serve food while it still was warm,

And controlling the pace of that rhythmic flow,

Would baptize with love,

Any lion they dominated below.

 

We protected our own,

Even from enemies unknown;

Using spears, shields and stones,

And sometimes getting real bold,

And using that potent, primitive magick we rolled.

We were truly invincible.

 

The warriors would bathe in blood,

The girls did have their herbs.

We would drink of arcane trees,

And eat of powerful beasts.

The heart would grow hard,

And over foreign lands, our spirit would be heard.

 

We slept in caves,

After days of endless shamanic raves.

We knew we weren't slaves,

But partakers in that mystic wave

That sweeps through plants, animals, hills and lakes.

And when time came for that eternal sleep?

We would not be enraged,

For we knew, there was another side to the grave.

 

We sung to the ancient ones

And never took for granted

Any moons or suns.

We would gaze to the heavens at night,

And submit our fears and desires

To those distant, but great celestial knights.

But now we've lost the light,

And sulk, at having lost the fight.

 

To the shrubs and trees

We turned when we were troubled by disease.

We protected each other's dreams;

The tree feeding and healing each man,

As we protected and preserved

Each species and shades we had.

 

There were morals and laws

Enforced by nature's own claws;

If a man killed his own,

He'd be weakened and would soon have to fall.

If a man yielded to sloth

He'd soon be weeded for being so,

In a jungle where speed and skill mattered most

And where beasts and savages always brawled.

 

Fear did have its place,

But to live and last long?

Courage and endurance,

One had to embrace.

 

Nature taught her laws

To any who would listen and watch.

There were no blackboards and no walls,

But from the day you stepped out of that womb,

Your ability to observe and learn,

Ensured you could adapt like any had.

 

You would learn to walk and talk,

Differentiate between the fox and dog,

Love your sister, but avoid her loins,

Know when to cry, and when to laugh.

You would learn;

To Eat the yellowish fruit, but avoid the blackening one,

Know when to sit, and know when to run,

Learn about valuing life, by encountering death,

And developing the use one's faith, for

There was always the greater unknown.

 

Oh how I miss those days now gone,

I can only dream, and live it like a song;

That ancient, majestic Africa that I mourn;

Whose flesh and soul have since gone,

And upon whose weathered bones I now walk

Since the coming of this enslaving new dawn.

 

Surely I shall conjurer;

I shall summon by those greatest arts,

Awaken and animate the light;

The spirit and life once gone,

To one day here return.

For that's how my ancient eternal African heart,

Was taught to live and survive,

All its future incarnations and vicious paths.

 

And so my children, women and men,

Strike your hearts to the rhythm of this song,

And awaken deep in your hearts,

The Spirit;

Of that Great Africa, that we once were.

 

This is your song,

Africa.

But this,

Is for all Mankind.