F like Fantasy

What language do missionaries “speak”? Theirs is an alphabet of mercy, with letters that breathe life back into words and generate works

I have always been fascinated by hearing the stories in the evening, around the campfire. I experienced it with scouts and with young people in Africa.
And especially the FANTASY, the way of storytelling, of attracting attention.

In Africa, during storytelling, to reawaken the attention of the listener, a kind of refrain “hadisinjo…and everyone responds ‘eleza’ (i.e.: here’s the story, the story continues; and everyone: it continues) is inserted every now and then. And on it goes with new details.

Kind of like that night the youth leader starts telling a strange story from who knows where. If I remember correctly, it was about a guy named Kipande (that is, half).

He had only one body part (hand, torso, right leg) and so he lived. I don’t know how he was able to do it. But just by the fact that he existed in the story, in the hadisi, everyone followed his story carefully.

You could hardly tell the faces apart, plus they were dark…The fire would rise and fall depending on the gusts of wind.
I too followed fascinated. It was hard to fall asleep. I wanted, we wanted to know how it would end.
But as in every story, there is always a new installment.

Kipande had started, it was up to us to add the rest, each with his own imagination. Someone was invited to continue. No one knew how, the story continued.

The time seemed never-ending. Around the circle, there were those who added wood to the fire that suddenly resumed vigor and so you could see the faces and gestures. It was something magical, something strange.

We were sitting on the beach in front of the mission.

In the distance we could see the fishermen’s lampara lights illuminating them as they cast their nets. Their songs were in the background of the story that seemed to go on forever.

Then slowly the fire begins to lose its vigor, our eyes close, and so we fall asleep, one by one, on the sand. We are awakened by the cries of the fishermen who are returning to shore.

From their cries we understand that the fishing has been lucky. There are some who would like to say many things. One approaches me and tells me that they too, while waiting for the fish to go into the net, were telling stories to each other.

And among those, the other half of KIPANDE…I wake up completely. But then, it wasn’t just us following the story!

The words slid lightly over the water to them who kept telling, despite the fact that the hippos wanted to know what those men were doing. They were big and big. They did not know how to tell. They were interested in grazing in the fields near the shore and woe to them if they disturbed them. But that night they made themselves good and with half-open eyes watched them in wonder.

In addition, another touch of magic had come from the moon slipping over the waters of the lake in the company of the stars.

In short, a special night as so often happens in Africa.

I crinkle my eyes. I bathe myself with the water from the lake and run for home, because by now everyone was on the move and I had some things to do as well.

My brothers ask me what happened tonight.

I look at them, smiling and say, “But you know that too, who have been in Africa for so long. On a night like this, special things happen, and if someone then adds a pinch of imagination to it, then it becomes an unforgettable night.”

I finally begin the day, although I struggle to turn my thoughts away from what I experienced this night. What then really happened, I still cannot figure out. But it is one of the gifts that only Africa can give you, if you know how to deserve it….

Source

• Father Oliviero Ferro

Image

• Image digitally created by spazio + spadoni