Sotho Hymn: 63

“I have no blessing,” he said truthfully. “My words have dried up.”

The old man looked up. His eyes were the colour of wet slate. “Because Hymn 63 has left my head.”

Mofokeng closed his eyes. He searched the cavern of his memory. Nothing. No Latin from the old mass. No Sesotho chorus. Just the howl of the wind and the ticking of the church’s broken clock. He felt a deep, cold shame. sotho hymn 63

The priest blinked. “Left your head?”

“Thank you, Ntate,” she whispered.

Mofokeng looked at the baby. The child’s lips were dry, his breathing a shallow flutter. The old man knew he had no power to heal. He was not a pastor or a sangoma. He was just a bricklayer who remembered songs. But his hands reached out anyway.

“The instrument is not the song,” Mofokeng replied. “I have no blessing,” he said truthfully

“I will go home now,” he said. “The wind is kind tonight.”