Sankofa. It means to go back.
To give thanks and praises to the Creator, regardless of the name in which we call Him/Her.
To remember our ancestors, we know not by name, and their ultimate sacrifice.
To remember our recent ancestors, and the wisdom their lives left behind.
To reflect on where we have been, to be clearer on where we are headed.
This is my personal diary of the last decade of experiences with attending Sankofa: The Caravan to the Ancestors, hosted by the Houston Chapter of the National Black United Front….and how these experiences changed my life.
The intent of this is not only to inspire all who have attended a Sankofa: Caravan to the Ancestors to share their their stories, but to bring an artistic and literary perspective to the history of this ceremony. The art of storytelling has long been a part of ancestral tradition.
2012’s diary expresses the power of this ceremony…even in absence… Hear the audio version of these diaries infused with old skool music and other mystic teachings on 222.9 The Mothership Internet Radio, and read the written part of this diary on www.poeticallymused.org/echoesoflegacy.
Pataki. Oni mi Ojo Abameta, Owara Ogun, Odun Egbawa Mejila
Marundilogbon ojo Igba Ooru.
Translate: Diary. Today is Saturday, October 20th, 2012, 29 days into Autumn Equinox.
The day vibrated on an 8, a day of infinite possibilities.
The Moon was waxing in the 10th house of Capricorn.
It was a 5 year, ideal for finding self.
I didn’t attend the 15th Annual Sankofa: Caravan to the Ancestors this year. It was themed “Living in the Principles of Maat.”
I missed because I was grieving a new ancestor, as well as the death of life as I knew it, and the death of the me I recognized. I wanted to see no one, and wanted no one to see me in the dark space I was in. I was well aware there were snakes calling me sister, even evil enough to find joy in others pain. I could hear the water calling me, but I was in too much pain to answer Her call. That may have been the time I needed to be there the most, but then I didn’t know any better. Although I wasn’t there, I still heard the drums in between sobs. What is it about the caravan than makes me feel it like this when I miss it? My life and energy was heavier the entire year I missed the Caravan. This…was a year for me in mourning.
Ase in Love,
iiiYansaje T. Muse
