by Nana Davis Mac-Iyalla
The palanquin held itself together—not by chance, but by sacred design.
It bore me with dignity, shielding me from the arrows of envy and the winds of betrayal.
The ancestors decreed: I am complete. The process was sealed. And so it was done—despite every negativity, every attempt to topple me.
I did not fall. I did not fracture. I rose, consecrated.
I hold the evidence. I carry the records. Not as a burden, but as a covenant.
The ancestors enable me to remember, to protect, to proclaim.
I am not a survivor—I am the sanctified witness.
I am not a stranger—I am the keeper of truth.
Now, as the festival season ripens, I am being remembered. Remembered not for survival alone, but for the grace and victory I have achieved.
I have assembled the drums.
The rhythm is ready.
It is time to dance to the tune of triumph.
Time to move in the cadence of completion.
Time to celebrate what could not be undone.
Interfaith Diversity Network of West Africa 