Palms, engraved with years of slavery.
Blood sweat and tears carried through my palm lines. Telling tales not of fairy tales but of struggles. Of poverty. Of pride. Of guilt. Of a fatherless child. These hands,they carry history. Generational turmoils. They carry proud Xhosa roots. Ezama qhawe nama qhawekazi awayedibanisa amathe nenyembezi so they could pass forward the names they bore so proudly. Ndizokwazi ukuziqhenya ndithi ndisisizukulwana saMaMvulane,ooNcilashe.
These hands they’ve breathed, lived poverty. Their scars tell of tales about struggles of the township.
Where from a tender age these hands have carried beer bottles for those uncles who drank too much. Elokshini,where broken dreams are the melodies playing across the streets. Where regrets are drowned in cartons zamaJuba. The night is brought to a stand still as it listens to the stories shared between crates of empty beer bottles until dawn creeps in to repeat yesterday’s cycle.
These palms hide secrets of whispered words between lovers. The kinds of secrets that would never dare be shared out loud. Secrets of love. Sweaty palms exchanging glances, gossiping of heartache. Of words unsaid. Heard only by these palms.Hands.
Hands that have written love letters. They’ve scribbled hearts and xoxo’s on crinkle paper with coloured ink.
Fingers that hold the pen as though its a mighty sword used to pierce through silence. To express loudly those words that lips cannot utter.
Hands so beautiful and sensual. Feminine hands. Tender,manicured hands. Polished hands. These hands are of a woman. A proud woman. A Xhosa woman. One who carries bravery through her veins. Taught to cherish every breath as a gift. Taught by those brave women around her how to flourish in a world where women sit with their heads down, withering inside as they perish.
Hands, raised in worship to the Lord.
Nothing beheld in these hands but they themselves become the offering. These hands,they’ve seen much. They’ve touched much. They’ve heard way too much. Yet these hands, they stand. Upright like soldiers. In surrender to God the Great Major. These imperfect hands become the spotless lamb.
So I will give these hands as a living sacrifice.
Holy and pleasing, to be of service to others.
To catch the tears from my brother’s eye.
To speak volumes where others are overcome by silence. To give a hug, a handshake or wave where its required. These hands will make history in serving others. I will fulfill my calling to be God’s hands with these flawed hands. Because though I may not have been born with much, God gave me HANDS..