Scales and Arabesques

‘Remember this: that the living heart that beats within you does not realise that it is part of something greater still. It sees only itself, and the fact that it is part of you does not enter its mind, and if you were to tell it that it is part of you, it would never believe you.’

Credo Mutwa 

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‘The world is on a collision course with disaster. Not only from or because of the threat of nuclear war but from the massive collapse of its institutions (political, social, economic, religious, spiritual, educational, etc.). It is the combined failure of these institutions and traditions that is at the root of the widespread decay and stagnation that we are witnessing in just about every nation in the world.’

Ra Un Nefer Amen

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‘Black people are afraid, but Black people are going to have to get over their fear. Black people do not know what is happening, but Black people are going to have to learn and understand what is happening. Black people are not thinking, but Black people are going to have to begin thinking.’

Dr Frances Cress Welsing – The Isis Papers

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Ruvarashe lies awake in bed, squinting her eyes from the streaks of morning sunlight seeping into her room as she feels her body ache. The residuals of a forgotten dream begin coming one by one, fragmented; a dark man, a cave, streaks of light shooting out of a flying object.

She lets out a deep yawn and sits with her bare feet hanging off the side of the bed. Like most ballerinas, she looks beautiful, but her feet are not so generous on the eye as they are plastered in corns, bunions, cracked skin and broken blisters. She carefully studies them, arches them, and does her first stretches of the day.

She stands in a barely furnished living room with enough space to practice. On the wall above, an old-fashioned stereo is a contemporary painting of a Provencal market with vibrant hues depicting flowers and fresh fruit. Across the room is a worn-out couch, slightly facing the huge window facing another grey-and-peach-looking apartment.

Still exhausted from the night before, she approaches the stereo and starts her performance, ‘On the Nature of Daylight-By Max Richter.’ It begins to play softly.

Ruvarashe rubs her knees to warm them and then begins extending and contracting her feet and legs in precise, rhythmic motions.

She is very thin, even for a ballerina. The skin on her chest stretches tautly over her sternum. Defined vertebrae run up her back as she bends down and forward, sinewy muscles contract and relax as she moves.

Her slender neck, like that of an ostrich, leads into an afro neatly gathered into a black ballerina’s bun. She is completely focused as she moves, obsessed with doing everything correctly, softly counting out the beats and maintaining perfect posture.

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Now sitting inside a partly empty subway car, staring absentmindedly at her unclear reflection in the train’s window, Ruvarashe feels her aches reawakened by the bumping and shaking of the train.

Suddenly, another train roars by on the opposite track, snapping the sleep out of her. The subway stops, and a gentleman dressed in a creaseless suit enters. Just like his suit, he is midnight black.

With the elegant poise of someone who has never been in a subway before, he places his shiny staff neatly beside himself, unbuttons his blazer and sits directly opposite her. She examines the head of the staff and soon makes out the Sphinx molten in what seems to be gold. In trying to calculate if it is real gold or not, she quickly looks at the man’s face and decides that it might be real gold, but why a gentleman like him could have been in the dingy piss stained subway, she has no idea.

Her phone vibrates, a message from Madame Colette:

“Sad to see you go, Miss. Good luck at the Concours de Danse de Paris!” Plus a kiss emoji with a heart.

She bitterly smirks. Can’t afford to pay her ballet choreographer anymore. She is about to click on the message when a loud burst from a bunch of teenage boys disturbs her. Nothing screamed more of Dystopia than a bunch of teenage boys heavily slouching into their mobile screens whilst watching TikTok twerk videos.

She sighs and rests her head on her seat.

Out of habit, she finds herself on Spotify again, playing her performance song. She sinks her headphones deeper into her ears in an attempt to eliminate the chugga-chugga of the train.

“Ah, Max Richter,” the man opposite her says whilst looking above her head.

“Excuse me,” she says, removing her headphones, slightly annoyed. That’s when another Dystopian-looking old lady walked by, pulling a worn-out suitcase with a cup in her hand, begging for money. She always freezes in these moments, not knowing if her coins would even help the capitalistic scab. The old lady looks like she needs more than just a few coins to change – she needs proper change: a change of clothes, environment, and bloody planet altogether.

After making her rounds, the old lady stands at the exit next to Ruvarashe. Soon, the train puffs its doors open, and she exits. No one enters except the empty air of previous passengers, and the door closes shut.

“What do you think he was trying to convey in ‘On the Nature of Daylight’?”

“You’ve got supersonic senses or what?”

“Is that your answer?”

“Well, in his own words, the piece is an attempt to make a kind of luminous music out of the darkest possible materials.”

“But what do YOU feel when you dance to it?”

“How did you know I…?” She glances at her rucksack beside her and sees her bloodstained satin shoes hanging out.

“If you want, I could teach you a thing or two about dance.”

“No, thank you,” she says in an attempt to dismiss him.

“Ruvarashe. Time is running out. If you don’t perfect the dance, you won’t break out of the circle. Lift the veil of ignorance.” The man looks sternly at her, his gaze unmoving.

“What? You’re freaking me out, old man.”

“Do you believe in aliens and that kind of thing?” He stands and hands her his business card.

“No, I don’t know…” The card feels like moss on her fingers with its touch of minimalism.

“Meet me there. Tomorrow at lunch.” And just like that, the man in black exits the train.

“Malik,” she mumbles his name under her breath, looks at the address and then places the business card in the smallest pocket of her rucksack.

It’s 21.30, and she still has 30 minutes to reach home. She resumes her music, closes her eyes, and slumps her head back.

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After a quiet morning at the university, Ruvarashe emerges from the subway station onto a busy city street.

She arrives at a regal-looking theatre where a few other ballerinas trickle towards the entrance. They all look strangely similar: thin, carrying shoulder bags, wearing leggings and loose sweatshirts.

As she nears the entrance, Malik, who appears from nowhere, intercepts her.

“You aren’t going in there, Madame,” he softly says into her right ear.

“Shu. You shocked me.”

“Allow me to lead.” He is still the man from yesterday. Black skin, grey beard, and a chunk of locs hidden into a drooping bun, with a flat black hat on top.

Malik covers ground quickly, leaving the frail ballerina behind.

“Look at those arches – they were built to withstand the test of time, but this isn’t a civilisation.” Malik uses his staff to point to a grand gothic building covered in green and black grime.

“What’s the staff about?” She asks as she watches it softly touch the surface of the ground

“This was crafted from the bones of ancient trees, as ancient as Atlantis and the Pyramids themselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“See, I’ve been alive for a thousand years. But a Great War is coming, and I’m preparing to return home.” His voice darkens.

“A war with who?”

“It has already begun. Just look around.”

“I don’t see any buildings falling or hear children crying.”

“And that’s your mistake,” he says, shaking his head. “Tell me. Where are you from, Madame?”

“I’m alone in this country. From Zimbabwe. Here to complete my studies.”

“Migration or Alien Abduction?”

“Migration. I’m not an Alien.”

“Do you know what an alien is?”

“You mean the ones on TV and stuff. Who doesn’t?”

“No…” Malik says with excitement in his eyes. Ruvarashe follows behind him and entertains his conversation, half of which she cannot follow.

Ruva hesitates, her steps slow as she follows Malik through the dimly lit corridors leading to his apartment. Something about his easy stride, the way he barely glances back, both unnerve and intrigue her. She has seen him before, but she just cannot remember where.

There is something that she needs to know, something that urges her forward despite the voice in her head that whispers caution. When the door clicks shut behind him, she exhales slowly, her resolve strengthening. She will follow, but she will not be careless. She wants to know, who is Malik?

Malik’s place is strangely decorated yet with a touch of regal elegance. In the spacious studio apartment, there is a neat and realistic-looking framed constellation of Pleiades. The ceiling, too, boasts a covering of Sirius’ B, with a grand chandelier dripping off the epicentre of the painting.

“Yes, that did cost a fortune,” Malik says as if reading her mind.

“Wow,” she says, genuinely impressed.

To her left, Ruvarashe observes an antique Redwood cabinet stacked with different kinds of rum—from the 1780 Harewood Barbados, Père Labat, to the simple Reimonenq.

“There’s nothing that pleases the taste buds of the gods more than one: vaginal fluids and two, rum,” Malik chuckles.

“But it seems that all you drink is rum, rum and rum only.”

“I had wives in different lifetimes, but I have decided to stay away from the creatures in this one. They don’t make them like they used to—as you young ones would say,” he pauses and looks at Ruvarashe and with sudden seriousness, adds, “In all honesty, the work I’ve been sent to requires a Woman with a capital ‘W’ and not just anyone who boasts breasts.”

Ruvarashe smirks, tilting her head. “A Woman with a capital ‘W’? Sounds like she’d need the patience of a saint to deal with someone who thinks rum and outdated opinions are the height of sophistication.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Madame.”

“Hhmm…” Ruvarashe says, skimming the rest of the house.

Still mesmerised by the gentleman’s abode, she is met at the corridor walls by littered frames of Bob Marley, Vaughn Benjamin, Manu Dibango, Peter Tosh, Simphiwe Dana, and Fela Kuti.

“These are the prophets of your time, so I thought, why not?”

“Prophets?”

“Yes, Madame. Let me show you my backyard.” There is a naughty smile on his face.

“You have a backyard right in the CBD of Paris!”

“Every magician requires a backyard, Madame.”

They take the stairs down, and in no time, she is standing in front of a disc-shaped spaceship, silver in colour, with turquoise on some of its compartments.

“Still needs a little bit of fixing,” Malik says as he picks up a rusty metal sheet out of the way.

The garden is a chaotic blend of wild overgrowth and scattered metal scraps. Rusted tools for spaceship construction lie abandoned among the tangled weeds. The ground is uneven, littered with bolts, twisted wires, and patches of scorched earth, telling tales of failed experiments.

“That’s a whole spaceship! How can you say that so…I don’t know, like it’s something small,” Ruvarashe says, her eyes wide.

“Oh, there’s bigger spaceships than this if that’s what you mean. I came here on a one-man mission; that’s why it’s small.” He throws aside metal scraps and other debris in his path.

“No! That’s not what I mean! I mean, you have a whole spaceship in your backyard!”

“Are you really surprised, though?”

“Not really…”

“Alright then. Now that the surprise is out of the way. Let’s see you dance, Madame.”

“But I don’t see anywhere I can dance,” she says, looking around.

“You are going to dance on top of the spaceship. Now hurry, tick-tock tick-tock.”

“What?”

Malik looks at her and slowly nods with his arms crossed.

Without arguing further, Ruvarashe changes into her full ballet gear—a tutu, bodice and pointes. She finds a ladder ready and climbs onto the spacecraft.

“It’s slightly tilted. I might fall!”

“Might fall. Your kind isn’t built to fall,” Malik says, sitting comfortably on a rusty chair facing the spaceship.

“Whatever. I need music.”

“Lesson number one. There’s music all around you. The birds are chirping, the grass is speaking, the seeds are falling out from their pods, and the flower petals are yawning from their sleep. Music is always with you, and as long as you have a beating heart, music never stops, all you have to do is STOP, LOOK and LISTEN.”

“But how about these projections from the craft? I’ll bump into them. It’s seriously a safety hazard.”

“Lesson number two. Life is not fair. Sometimes you’ll have to find rhythm regardless of the disharmony around you. Harmony is yours to create.”

“Now come on, Madame! The sun is setting.”

“I can barely see already. This is going to be difficult.”

“Lesson number three. Only fools depend on their eyesight alone. You need to see with your Spirit. See, you’re learning quite fast, Madame. Now dance.”

Ruvarashe closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and starts.

Her dance begins with a slow adagio, her arms extending with a languid elegance. A grand développé unfolds as if reaching towards the stars. She listens to her performance song playing in her head, stretching her limbs. She transforms into an arabesque.

She continues her dance by throwing in some pirouettes, spinning with controlled abandon, turning and twirling as if orbiting her own cosmic centre. Before she executes a grand jeté, she feels water trickling down her body—Malik has unexpectedly turned on the sprinklers.

The tilt and water she slightly slips on disrupt her final arabesque. Out of breath, she sits on the spaceship, trying to regain orientation.

Malik approaches her and helps her down the ladder. She sits on a chair beside his, wiping the water from her face.

“The spaceship will always be your centre stage, Madame.”

Still trying to gain her breath, she ignores him.

“What happened to the missing capstone of the Pyramid of Giza, Madame?”

“I don’t know what that is,” she replies, still out of breath.

“See, what they don’t tell you is that it was never there to begin with. That pyramid was complete without the capstone. Paradoxical, isn’t it? All Ancient Egyptian work was symbolic from the beginning to the end,” Malik looks away as another thought has caught his attention. “Your dance is missing that capstone, Madame. As long as you don’t find that stone and put it where it belongs, your dance shall always be incomplete.”

“I think our lesson ends here today. And this is the only lesson you’ll ever need, Madame.”

Moments later, she is back in her black jeans and sweater, water still dripping from her hair into her neck.

“Oh, and just food for thought. The Capstone, also called a Pyramidion—on its own is a smaller pyramid. A microcosm within a Macrocosm. Goodnight, Madame,” he says as he leads her to the subway, and when she looks back, he isn’t there anymore.

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Days and months went and Malik was nowhere to be found.

When she got bored, she would try finding his home, but to no avail. It’s like the whole building had been yanked off the face of the planet. She could not understand why she had never found his home until, finally, a week later, a text message from Malik came: “Off to Uganda to find some melanin for my spacecraft. Don’t crack your head. Madame, we all know that melanin is a great emitter and absorber of heat. By coating the spacecraft with melanin, I can create a layer that can handle the intense radiation and heat fluctuations of space travel. Simple, right!—don’t ask me how I’ll get this melanin (three laughing emojis)

(Alchemy).”

“By the way, what if I told you everything was happening in your head? You can’t find me, Madame, I find you. I have no home on this planet. Au revoir, Madame.”

What on earth is he even on about? Great absorber and emitter? No home on earth. Strange, she thinks to herself.

Another text follows with Ndiredi by Simphiwe Dana attached: “Way ahead of her time this one. Enjoy!”

The Hindu-Yogi Science of Breath. “This is gold, Madame. Do these breaths, and you’ll be untouchable. These are my gifts to you, Madame. Until next time!”

She reads the texts in his tone, then chuckles to herself.

For months to come, she would practice her dance hundreds of times, thinking about her breath, her heart, and her flow, just as the crazy guy instructed. Surprisingly, she feels more at ease with every step she makes. Every Adagio, Arabesque, and Pirouette comes out with fluidity and balance.

Her body is neatly spread on her bed, and she skims through her social media, watching ballet videos on TikTok and the latest mind-boring news on Twitter. All too morbid for her, she decides to go back to her chat with Malik, scrolling past links of Credo Mutwa videos: “Why was Cecil John Rhodes buried at Matobo hills?” Latest UFO sightings—“UAPs, they call them these days. Just to mislead you. Ha!” Another random video, “Those were the days huh, when we asked trees for permission before we cut them down (sad face emoji): each link from Malik comes with an even more cryptic message—other videos from Chitauri sightings in the Nyanga mountains in Zimbabwe. Not sure what video to start with, she listens to the song she’s been sent.

That night, she has a lucid dream: she is at what seems to be a military camp, and she is the only woman there. Just as she’s still floating around trying to make sense of where she is, a white shirtless man appears and begins to approach her to kiss her in the mouth. She can see him for what he really is: a demon. She sees through his physical appearance, fragmented in different forms, physical to astral; the deeper she looks, the more entities she can see dwelling within him. Ruvarashe can also tell that if she kisses him, he will transfer one of the demons from his stomach and into her.

She quickly pushes him away, and the white man doesn’t fight her but goes on his way as if to find others to possess.

Just as that is done, Malik appears on her left side.

“Madame, come this way.” In this dream, he looks like a giant, towering above her with a presence that both intimidates and reassures. But as they interact, he seems to gradually shrink, or perhaps she grows, until he appears at his normal size, familiar and comforting. She’s still looking at him, not saying a word, when two creatures emerge from behind him—a giant made of huge pieces of rocks and another one made of a tree.

“Do not fret. These are my friends.” The rock creature is an amalgamation of massive boulders that seem to float just above the ground. Its body shifts with each step, and stones rearrange and grind as they move. The stones are not ordinary rocks; they glisten with veins of precious minerals—gold, silver, and gemstones that catch the surrounding light, no matter how minute. Despite its formidable appearance, there is something gentle in its movements, as if each step is carefully measured to avoid causing harm.

The tree creature is slender and graceful, and the bark on its body is an intricate display of batik patterns. Vines and tendrils extend from its limbs, covered in leaves that change colour with each breath, from deep emerald to vibrant gold and then to a soft blue. Flowers bloom when it laughs, releasing a sweet fragrance that fills the air.

The two creatures hop onto Malik’s back, intertwining with him in playful harmony. The rock creature’s massive hands ruffle his hair as it shifts its weight, while the tree creature weaves delicate garlands of flowers and leaves, draping them over his shoulders like a royal mantle. Their laughter rings out, a sound that seems to blend with the rustling leaves and the distant murmur of a hidden stream.

Before she knows it, they are away from the main camp and now standing by a road lined with tall, slender trees. The trees stand like sentinels, their pale trunks glowing in the diffused light that filters through the overcast sky. Their branches stretch high above, forming a natural archway that frames the road in a tunnel of green and silver. The leaves whisper a soothing lullaby that seems to resonate with her very soul. The cloudy sky sneaks between the spaces above the trees, casting soft shadows that softly dance on the ground below, creating a patchwork of light and dark that feels alive.

She feels so at peace as if the very earth beneath her feet is cradling her in its gentle embrace. The air is filled with the scent of damp earth and red petals that fall from trees above her. The beauty of the landscape, with its serene trees and the unforced play of light and shadow, washes away her fears, leaving her with a sense of belonging and calm she has never known before.

As they are still standing, an attractive woman appears to her right, crossing the road whilst smoking a cigarette. The brunette, now standing next to Ruvarashe, has piercing eyes that look as if they have seen hell, whose colour seems to change between a light grey and soft green. Ruvarashe notices that the cigarette is about finished, and that’s when the woman takes the last huge puff that swirls in the air as if dancing. Ruvarashe looks up and sees the smoke coming directly into her nose, and that’s when everything changes.

All of a sudden, she is lying on a mat in a tiny room. The brunette has turned into a grey alien with eyes that look very distant. This alien has its thumb directly between her forehead, showing her darkness she has never experienced before. She begins to scream as she is surrounded by pitch black while experiencing the highest level of fear. The alien keeps its thumb unmoving as she is stuck in that fearful state.

Ruvarashe begins to pray, opening her eyes to see if the darkness is now gone, but no. Each prayer seems to be further plunging her into the abyss. One thing is clear about this dream: if she does not make it out of the darkness, she will perish with it, and her dead body will be found on her bed the next morning. Only an autopsy would rule out ‘cardiac arrest’ as her cause of death. Afraid but with belief now, unlike just regurgitating the Christian garbage she’d seen on TV, she begins to say:

The light of the Lord is my salvation.

(Opens eyes; darkness).

The light of the Lord is my salvation.

(Opens eyes; little bit of light).

The light of the Lord is my salvation.

(Opens eyes; Light).

She sighs, and the scene immediately transforms again – she now stands on the road next to Malik. She watches the brunette cross the road with her back turned into the bush from which she came.

“I’m sorry about that, Madame. I had to make you go through it. See, darkness is light to those who do not know light. And just as the Great Bible says, darkness does not comprehend light. Now, we can go to war.”

They head back to the camp. Ruvarashe, still not comprehending what has just happened, walks in silence. The rock and tree creatures’ voices can be heard as they walk back to the main camp. Here, a red and huge 4×4 car of a kind she’s never seen on earth awaits them. They pass a few other male militants stripped down into vests, looking relaxed as if coming from battle. One of them, crushing marijuana leaves in his hands, eyes her as she enters the car with Malik and his two friends. Even though the car is huge, there’s no telling how all of them can fit in there with ease.

And just like that, she wakes up gasping for air with her bed drenched in sweat.

👽

On the day of the competition, she arrives at the majestic-looking theatre where a handful of other ballerinas stand outside, others pulling mini suitcases, wearing leggings and loose sweatshirts, and all smelling like anxiety.

At the backstage entrance, she sees a motley crew of ballet fans assembled around the star judges. A couple of cameras focus on Ruvarashe as she approaches, but she gives them no attention. They turn their attention back to the judges and other frivolous ballerinas.

She enters the cramped changing room, goes to the mirror and applies her share of make-up and brown lipstick. Hers is a gray attire made out of a bodice, tutu and satin pointes. Other competitors are sewing ribbons onto shoes, applying makeup, and putting band-aids on blisters. Some are soloists like herself, some are paired, and some will compete as groups—judging from the similarity of their attire.

The muffled sounds of other ballerinas chatting and giggling drift in from the large rehearsal space, making Ruvarashe feel a little isolated. She moves to an empty space and begins stretching her anxiety away.

When the time comes, she shuffles towards the stage and faces the three judges. A stern-looking old Asian man on one side, in the middle, an otherwise simple-looking white woman if it weren’t for her glittery attire and red lipstick, and on the other side is a similar-looking coconut, from whom Ruvarashe already feels disapproval.

The audience throws her daggers with their cold and blank stares. She feels like an alien.

Max Richter’s melody fills the theatre. Ruvarashe takes centre stage, and her every movement embodies esoteric lessons from Malik.

As Ruvarashe continues her mesmerising routine, the audience members and judges, for the briefest of moments, morph into reptilian-like beings. Scales shimmer in the phantom light of the theater, and split pupil eyes take on a serpentine gleam. The surreal transformation seems to echo the haunting undertones of the music she’s dancing to.

Ruvarashe, caught in the enchantment of her own performance, keeps perceiving the audience as fantastical creatures. The reptilian apparitions, however, are ephemeral, vanishing as quickly as they have appeared.

She falls on the stage but continues to dance as her vision returns to normal. The judges smile at her encouragingly. The audience, now suspended in an eerie quietude and seemingly oblivious to their transient reptilian forms, erupts into applause as Ruvarashe gracefully concludes her performance with an unshakable arabesque.

She does not bask in this admiration but instead rushes backstage and out of the theatre with tears falling from her eyes. And that’s when she sees it—the spaceship being driven by Malik. The wind from the spacecraft blows leaves in her direction as he shouts out of his window.

“Hop on, Madame! You don’t have much time. They are already here!”

“But, my home is here. And my prize!”

“Your real prize is among the stars. What’s a little Earth trophy compared to your soul, Madame?”

“Oh, here we go again, dammit!”

🛸