The ultimate medium for this story is an animated short film, but…baby steps. Have a listen to Episode 2 and share some feedback!
II. Minha Gente
Exhale. Then, breathe again. You are meeting someone with a burden too great to bear. Have you ever met this supernova of a person? Their energy packs the force of an explosion into the precision of a pinprick. It’s nothing short of a miracle for those who can recognize it. You can tell you are meeting one of the gods. Each night, a different face of a prism too celestial for your viewing.
What a beauty. To be born of the violence of that revolution is an unattainable feat. A part of her always knew she would never repeat it in her lifetime. Yet, she spent every night illuminating the town with her grace. She covered every port, canal, path, corner, beach and street in search of that unattainable beauty. At 13 years old, having laid her light on every centimeter of that land, she rested. Where else but home? Near the melancholy seas. The sound of each pensive wave crashing on its brother, land. Natural rhythm. She found the ocean’s amnesia haunting. How could such a thing endlessly fulfill the same task? Night after night. Ignoring the sands of time and beating to its own cadence. Yet, without ever seeing, she knew this beast held every secret of the universe. Each drop capturing a sliver of history. Our collective memory crashing on our land. Night after night. To her, the sea was a compendium brought to life by the sound of her music.
Like I said, while most began the climb to their peak at 13, Lua rested. She knew her glow would only wane until her vanishing point. Little time left to grow love but such was the nature of her prophecy.
With a town of uncles, every suitor was a cousin. Forbidden to taste, but the girl could look. First, it was the boy with the tattered covers. Angel. A softness in his eyes beckoned her imagination. After-all, the girl was born with the gift of sight. The kind of person that can see your ancestors in the room. Without exchanging words, she could see his father burning in the fires of the war. A forgotten infantryman of the rebellion whose name would never be sung. Another look and she would see further back. 100 years prior. The memory of Angel’s pregnant grandmother, tortured with embers until her flesh succumbed to the burns. Angel spent his days as an apprentice with the woodworker— inhaling enough sawdust to feed the fire that would one day take his lungs. Câncer de pulmão.
Then, there was Markandeya who everyone called Mar. She was the daughter of an Indian merchant who lost his fortunes long before she was born and a mother descended from slaves who passed on her family’s drumming traditions. Mar was a prodigy of Batuque, a musical style born of rebellion. Through percussion and harmonies, the women of Cape Verde managed to create a musical genre that captured the endless sorrow and hope to rejoin their loved ones.
That’s why I love us. We can spin the lightest magic from the thickest pain.