Ghosts flitter. Liquid drops. A hive-honeyed hum. The pierce and punch of a trumpet.
Once upon a time there was a slave church, and it filled each week with the worship of the unwanted. Between every pulpit Sunday it filled with silent screams of stolen spirit. And when one day there were no more slaves, it fell silent.
The ghosts stayed.
Came the prisoners of strange.
And because men play with life like it is a toy, they played with toys and brought them to life. Slowly the bewitched filled the gallery.
We looked up because there is heaven in it.
We sat up straight because there is god in us.
we moved because the ghosts were moving.
And we all let Mr Mombelli, Marcus, Mr. martin and Siya syncopate our souls with the rhythm of the Under. Snappily. Tightly. Moodily. Magically. Ever after.
Tell me the colour of the ceiling, and I’ll tell you if your ears were open.
p.s. There are still slave churches. But the dominee is within.