s w a h i l i
take a drunk girl home
let her sleep all alone
leave her keys on the counter
your number by the phone
pick up her life she threw on the floor
The air was sweet to the taste. Smoke curling up from applewood, as it lit the world up with the flickering, dancing hues of amber and burgundy. Staring at the flames as they danced, coiling up into the air was bittersweet to her heart, as bittersweet as the knowledge, that if her father was aware she was here; the consequences would be dire. Not just because the 'accident' was out in public, but because the entire situation hummed in her blood with the familiar wildness that her mother had been known for. With her eyes closed, basking in the heat, the glow; of those swirling flames, the pyre could shift to the ones lit in her memory - laughter and joyous voices switching to old melodies as rich as the sands, as desert dancers swirled, and played, and the tribe guided her step by step through the dances of their cultures, as they bedded down within the circle of the caravan wagons. She remembered those days with a sense of bittersweet desire, with a heavy heart of one who had everything and traded it for nothing.
She drew the khaki shawl slightly tighter around her features, shrouding her face, distorting and obscuring her identity as she had been trained to do under Addy's gentle guidance. Ways to give her freedom while avoiding the open palm swing of her father's dominance. Power and wealth had no protection when you were the spare. No, not even the spare. Because the other daughters lived in the manor with precious gems, silk, and satin, women of power and wealth and beauty . . . she was the one that shouldn't be there. A daughter born from the night of passion with a passing gypsy, returning in the wind, long enough to wreck a life. She was her father's greatest regret, the precious treasure tossed aside unless she had political use.
He had barely looked her way until he realized she was now of marrying age - and suddenly she had just enough value as the highest bidder. An auction for who would be her next enslaver, when her heart yearned for the freedoms of those desert nights, existing within the caravan of gypsies, a wildflower growing in the sunshine, warmth, and abundance of love beneath the open sky. Now she was a rare Juliet rose that was grasping for the faintest hint of sunlight as she is trapped under the shade and shadow of her half-siblings, her father. Only Addy provided her with that much-needed attention, ever the attentive older brother who wanted to see her flourish. The only individual she had fighting for her, in her own corner.
But tonight, she wasn't Swahili Atraer. Beneath the stars that lit the sky as if they had been flecked into existence by a painter's bristled brush; she too felt that returned sense of freedom to just be Swahili, as her mother had wanted. Wild, free, exotic. She stood still on the outermost reaches of the bonfire, watching the other dancers, a small smile on her muzzle from the shadows created by the dense population of colorful tents. She'd avoided coming earlier in the day when others were more curious of those around them. Now, later in the evening with wine and alcohol flowing freely, and many individuals already clinging to one another, she felt a little safer to embrace that rare moment of freedom.
And in the darkened shadows of those looming tents, with the glow of the bonfire in the distance, the wildflower felt her limbs step into the familiar movements, delicate ankles following the steps as if she was once more being guided by her mother, and grandmother, aunts, and cousins. She felt their touches upon her skin, phantoms in the night, guiding her through the motions once more, and the bittersweet smile turned to a moment of joy, as she spun, and swirled, like a petal in the wind, a long-stemmed flower in the breeze, and child of desert rain, and temptations. In this rare moment, separated from the world, the figure felt freer than she had been since she showed up on her father's doorstep at the tender age of 6 months old - hearing how she should never show herself in public, how she shouldn't exist.
In this rare moment, she felt she existed, even if she remained in the shadows, never dancing before the flames of life, always obscured from the eyes of the others. A hidden treasure that's been purposely hidden behind shinier, well cared for toys on a child's shelf. An ancient relic, unknown under years of muck and dirt, just waiting for someone to polish her and see her shine. Until that day, however; when the freedom she yearned for was achieved, she didn't mind dancing in the dark, her laugh soft, carefree, igniting upon a few of those ears who stayed to the edge just as she had as they would glance towards her, and smile slightly at the hidden wildflower dancing among the cover of obscurity.
"Speech"
Thoughts
@For anyone
Notes: <3 FIrst Swa post <3 <3
