Phoebe Mutetsi is black, with small limbs and little hair. A writer with no skill or talent for small talk and chitchats, Phoebe spends most of her friday nights and weekends in a darkened bedroom scribbling incomprehensible texts in a plain white note book smartly labelled Colors. There in its pages, she courts words, phrases and short sentences as they form between pen and paper. On productive days -very rare days- these scribbling grow into beautiful prose of teenage fiction.
More importantly though is that as a child, before organised school and structured education, Phoebe got taught about The Spirits; tall, beautiful and feminine, ageless and with no gender, The Spirits lurk about in the darkness of night time, going about their businesses, smoking long scented cigarattes, wearing a sort of earthy/elusive-jasmine perfume; “you will smell them first before can you see them. Although, never will you ever see them.”
This early knowledge that night time comes with its own scents and smells, creatures and businesses, far different from these of day time has since continued to intrigue Phoebe. The result of this intrigue becomes her major source of unending rhetoric; “if the world has enough room to delicately hold the unknown, to conserve the sacred, how then does it become too small for the known, the common, those we can both smell and see and touch and get in conversation with. How does one man, two, three, millions single handledly bring death to the land, the animals, the waters, and their selves? Is the darkness of night better? Is it better to not know? To not see? To not comprehend a world around you, for then you cannot destroy it?”
Phoebe is 25 years old, still wide eyed, uneducated.