This was last week, I’m on my way there again today – anyone need anything? Or, in the regional case of Sheila and William, anyone want owt from out?
A woman shambled past, smiling and singing to her god and looking bemused at the washing line looped loosely around her wrists by the family members with her.
Nkosi yam… (my god)
I was sitting on a bench with some people waiting for a blood test and as the woman’s family ushered her gently past, a woman next to me joined in.
Nkosi yam, baba siyakuthanda… (my god, father we love you)
There is (obviously) singing in all cultures, I just happen to live where the singing doesn’t necessarily require any particular environment or reason. The woman having blood drawn was singing at just above usual speech level, the woman next to me sang just below it.
Wasifela thina (you died for us)
Ngokuba usithanda (because you love us)
Wanqamlezwa wena (you were crucified)
Wab’ ungenatyala (though you were innocent)
(Do you mind needles? The tats all down my left…
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