As young girls growing up my sisters and I were a racial phenomenon.  Each one of us have variant shades of golden brown, hair a mix between straight, curly, fuzzy thick and whatever else you can call it. Now, we three vary in shape and size, as for me I’m shapely but small, my younger sister is small too but waifish, and the baby of our family is taller than the two of us and slender, she takes more after our mother.

But what sets me apart from the girls is my chin, nose and cheek bones.  My chin is strong, my nose is broad, and cheek bones are high and wider.  My family always marveled that I do not look like my mother nor like my father, I resembled them, but am not a distinct image of either as my sisters are, one looks exactly like my father, the other like my mother. It is a running joke that I must be a ‘good mix with both’, or ‘that [I] look like my grandmothers’.  It is one of those things that confuse you when you move into those awkward teen years. 

In order for me to tell my story honestly I have to give you a little background. There is something that needs to be put on the table, which a lot of people shy away from because of the skeptical society we have today. But this piece of ‘supernatural’ information is integral to my story.  As a young girl, and sometimes even up till today, I had ‘prophetic dreams’, ideas and understanding.  But let’s concentrate on the dreams.  It is because of one of my dreams that I am able to tell you this story.

My father died when I was sixteen in our home land of South Africa. Being in America at that time, my Mother and us girls had to travel back for the funeral.  When we returned home my mother decided she wanted to stay, so that we could be closer to family, us girls did not know this at the time, we always assumed we would be returning back to our home, America.  But one night months after my father’s funeral I had one of my dreams. I did not understand it and was uncomfortable, for lack of a better word, with it. Now this dream had to do with my father after he had died, his soul, usually when I dreamed of death it was the act of when it will happen, or that a person was making the transition from life to death, but never about their soul’s journey.  But in this dream a  man with dark skin, and long black hair that were split into two braids was burning a plant and waving it around my father’s soul, he was speaking a language I had never heard before, but it was familiar to me. He then turned to me and said that I had to return back home.