A number of weeks ago, my ancestors visited a reader of this column with a message for me. He didn’t entertain it the first time and then it happened again, in what he says was a sensation that would not leave him alone. When he saw me at a function in the following weeks, he relayed two very particular messages, one from my mother’s mother and the other from my father.
For days before that I had been feeling an inexplicable anxiety about what life means and internally reaching for portals that might be able to reveal something. I had questions. Why am I here? Who is in control? Is this it? The messages came at a time when I deeply needed a “Hey’’ from another dimension, another side to this version of existence.
During a moment of palpable connections with those two spirits, I desperately wondered where in God’s galaxies they are and what they are doing there. How are they able to beam information through a third body and what of their preoccupation with the living?
My friend Ra and I have this theory that the small golden rhino that was found in the gravesites of Mapungubwe, dating back to the 13th century, about 800 years before they were found in the 1930s, is actually a prototype for a giant golden rhino that our ancestor’s ancestors climbed into and left for another place that isn’t Earth.
They are chilling somewhere on a star that the Dogon showed them, conspiring with the Great Zimbabweans or the Mayans on ways to send us clues whose basic bottom line is: no, this isn’t it. They probably left because Earth had an entirely different constellation of problems that they were escaping or … they were so inconceivably wise that they figured out how to get out of here without dying and are waiting for us to transcend.
The biggest crumb they have thrown for us in recent history is the internet, a tool that has dismembered us from our ignorance and given rise to an energy that seeks to bond itself to the roofs of our selves, the higher nature of our beings.
The internet has, especially recently, transported an inevitable energy of reclamation, reformation, truth, freedom and the revelation of a reachable, tangible Love. This is a female energy. This is an ancestral energy. Those who can feel and access this energy are finding each other at incredible and inexplicable speeds. They are beaming into each other’s pathways and bonding to the force and to each other, as women’s bodies magically sync menstrual cycles when they are together. As it attaches the ready beings to each other, the energy multiplies and presents evidence of itself in the urgent connections that are turning to work — to words, songs, conversations, moments, meetings, resistances, and awakenings.
This energy is connective because it brings with it ideas that need fertile ground on which to land and ready bodies through which to exist. At this moment, an inexplicable renaissance is unfolding, a corner is being turned. It cannot be stopped because its time has come on the clock of creation. And naturally, a natural resistance to this energy is also working to help it through its birth.
I believe that the current expression of explicit hatred in the world (made more palpable, more visceral by the gift-giving internet) — is a direct energetic response to the current expression of explicit Love pumping through the people who have decided they are changing position now. They will no longer be at the place where the world wipes its feet.
A crucial part of this awakening is a responsibility from its carriers. Ben Okri puts it like this: “To poison a nation, poison its stories. A demoralized nation tells demoralised stories to itself. Beware of the storytellers who are not fully conscious of the importance of their gifts, and who are irresponsible in the application of their art: they could unwittingly help along the psychic destruction of their people.”
For some this is a mirage in the desert of a banal and meaningless existence. For others, whose time has come to heed the calls from the higher side, it’s a radical oasis of healing.
This article first appeared in Iimbali, a regular column by me in the Mail & Gaurdian. It is a space for stories and other narrative-based social analysis