It happened again. That strange trembling in my chest, like invisible hands pressing into me, forcing me to listen. At first I thought it was just the after-effects of too much coffee, or maybe the stress of ignoring Smanga's endless calls.
The voice came, low and certain, cutting through everything else:
"Sodumo."
I froze. My heart skipped, then stumbled. Sodumo? Was the spirit calling me by another name, or was it comparing me to someone? In that moment I felt as though the ancestors had reached down and plucked a string tied to my soul, pulling it taut.
I laughed nervously—because that's what I always do. I've always been the funny guy, the one who could make people forget their troubles for a moment with a stupid joke or some playful nonsense. But then it hit me—what if this wasn't just my personality? What if my sense of humor was spiritual?
It dawned on me like lightning: my Sacral Chakra had been overactive my whole life. That energy of creativity, of joy, of play—that's what made me a clown among my friends. I wasn't just being silly; I was channeling a force. And now the ancestors were making me see it.
That thought spun into a bigger question. If my sacral energy made me a joker, what about other people? Some kids are born kicking balls like they've been doing it for centuries—their Heart Chakras must be wide open from birth, channeling rhythm and flow. Others open their mouths and sing like angels without ever needing a teacher—surely their Solar Plexus Chakras shine like suns. And the math geniuses, the kids who see numbers as if they're alive? Their Crown Chakras must be blazing before they can even tie their shoes.
But what about the others? What talent comes from an overactive Throat Chakra? Or the Root? I closed my eyes, thinking. Maybe the Throat gives us truth-speakers, leaders whose voices shake rooms and command change. And the Root? The survivors. The builders. Those who carry an unshakable will, no matter how harsh life gets.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized: every child is born with a doorway already open. A talent gifted by spirit, waiting to be recognized. And here I was, at this stage of my life, only now beginning to see the map.
Recently, I'd thrown myself into meditation. It started small, just a curiosity. But then I discovered its power. Sitting still, breathing deep, focusing on the inner fire—it was like someone had handed me the keys to my own soul. And when I shared my journey online, TikTok of all places, people started responding. Thousands of them. Broken people, tired people, laughing at my jokes and then staying for the lessons. It felt like I was sending sparks into the dark, and those sparks were catching flame.
It gave me hope. It gave them hope. For the first time, I saw that the little funny boy with the big mouth had a gift that was more than survival—it was medicine.
But the voice kept repeating. "Sodumo."
I didn't know if the spirit was mocking me, or crowning me, or warning me. All I knew was that I couldn't ignore it. My body buzzed, my dreams turned strange. In one dream, I saw myself juggling balls of light, laughing as people around me clapped. In another, I was standing in a circle of children, each with a glowing chakra, each talent shining through them like stars.
The line between dreams and waking blurred. I would be scrolling through TikTok comments—someone thanking me for teaching them a breathing technique that helped them sleep—and suddenly I'd hear it again. "Sodumo."
I started wondering if maybe this wasn't just about me. Maybe it was about Amaqhawe, about all of us who had once dreamed of lifting the township higher. Maybe the ancestors were pushing me to see the bigger picture: that healing, laughter, sport, song, numbers, leadership—all of it was part of one great body. One great spirit. And we had forgotten.
It was beautiful. But it was also terrifying. Because each time the calling came, it felt stronger, heavier, as if dragging me somewhere I wasn't ready to go.
One evening, sitting cross-legged in my room, incense burning low, I tried to meditate on it. I counted my breaths. I visualized the spinning orange light of the Sacral Chakra, glowing just below my navel. And as I did, I heard laughter—deep, rolling laughter, not mine, not human.
I opened my eyes. The room was empty. But my heart was racing, my skin prickled.
I knew then that this path was no longer a hobby, no longer just content for TikTok. It was a calling. A serious one.
And when things get serious in matters of spirit, there's only one person I can turn to.
Gogo Nomusa.
The thought struck like a drumbeat. I hadn't been to her in months, not since the last time I fled Johannesburg and its shadows. But now, with Sodumo echoing in my head, with laughter that wasn't mine still haunting my ears, I knew I had no choice.
I had to go back.