Spirits of Sea, River, and Mountain: The Story of Makosi Brown
Thokoza, family. My name is Makosi Brown, and this is my story—a pilgrimage I call Spirits of Sea, River, and Mountain, a journey of herbs, medicine, and the call of my amadlozi, the ancestors who carve the path ahead. It began with a restless stirring, a voice from deep within urging me to shed the skin of who I’d been and step into the unknown. I was to become a makhosi, a bridge between worlds, and this journey would demand everything: my hands, my heart, and my spirit.
Every morning at sunrise, I bathed in the river, the water cold against my skin as the first rays broke the horizon. It wasn’t just cleansing—it was preparation, a way to still my mind and open my ears to the amadlozi. The river was alive, its currents carrying their whispers. I’d kneel on the bank afterward, burning impepho, its sharp, sacred smoke spiraling upward, calling the ancestors closer. That smoke was my first step into trance, a doorway to the unseen.
The Clapping Hands and Trance
As a sangoma-in-training, I learned why we clap our hands. It’s not just sound—it’s power. The rhythm of my palms striking together mirrors the heartbeat of the earth, waking my spirit and pulling me into a trance. Each clap is a signal to the amadlozi, a way to say, “I’m here, I’m listening.” The air hums with it, and my body sways, caught in the pull of something bigger. Alongside the clapping, the beat of drums at midnight ceremonies—like the ones we held by the river—deepened that state. The mfehle, the leopard-skin cloth I wore as I danced, grounded me while the shoba—a whisk of animal hair—swept through the air, cleansing me and inviting the ancestors’ energies to join us.
The Rondavel Called Isgodlo
The heart of our rituals was a rondavel called isgodlo—a spiritual place of meeting and healing, its circular walls built from earth and thatch, a sacred enclosure where the amadlozi felt near. This wasn’t just any rondavel; it was hallowed ground, set apart for communion and restoration. Inside the isgodlo, I’d light a fire, the impepho smoke curling thick as I clapped my hands and chanted, “Thokoza makhosi, siyabonga ka khulu.” The words rose with the drumming, a greeting and a gratitude that filled the space. Here, in this rondavel called isgodlo, we gathered to heal—body, spirit, and community—guided by the ancestors’ steady hands.
The Environment of the Soul
The places we honored were sacred: the joint of sea, river, and mountain, where the elements met in harmony, giving life to the Spirits of Sea, River, and Mountain. We’d pray there, our voices echoing in the isgodlo’s embrace. The drumming shook the night, and I’d dance, the mfehle clinging to my shoulders, its leopard print—aingwe—marking me as one who walks with courage and wildness. The isgodlo held us like a heartbeat, its walls alive with the energy of every prayer, every clap, every step.
The Beads and Their Meanings
My clothing told a story of its own. I wore the ibhayi, a width of beaded bracelets of multicolored fabric that shifted with each step, and around my wrists and ancles hung strands of beads—red, white, blue, yellow, brown—each color a thread in the tapestry of my calling. Red was for protection, a shield against harm. White called to the holy spirit, purity and light. Blue bound us as a family, drawing my people together in unity. Yellow brought peace, a calm to steady my soul. Brown tied me to the earth, to the herbs I’d come to know. On my head, I wore the isicholo, a woven headdress of dignity, and over it, a mnyeko—a beaded band that dangled with green beads to ward off envy, its weight a quiet comfort.
In my hand, I carried the iqhabanga, a beaded stick that marked me as a herb healer. Its smooth wood and bright beads spoke of the umuthi I crafted—intelezi for strength, impepho for clarity—each remedy a gift from the soil and the amadlozi. The iqhabanga wasn’t just a tool; it was my authority, my proof of purpose.
The Rituals of Seeing
One night, under a sky thick with stars, we gathered by the mountain’s base, the rondavel called isgodlo glowing faintly in the distance. The drums roared, and I danced with the shoba, its bristles flicking through the air, stirring the energies around me. Then came the bones. From my isikhwama samathambo—a bag of throwing bones, shells, and divination tools—I spilled the contents onto a mat. The clatter was sharp, like the ancestors speaking all at once. Each bone, each shell, held a story, a map to a soul’s purpose. I read them with trembling hands, the trance pulling my vision beyond the here and now, showing me what the amadlozi needed me to see.
A Makhosi’s Path
To be a makhosi is to stand as a pillar—both chief and servant. In Zulu culture, amakhosi are the great ones, leaders in flesh or spirit, revered as amadlozi when they pass. For me, it’s the path of a sangoma, a healer who listens to the idlozi (singular ancestor) and wields umuthi to align what’s torn. It’s a life of clapping hands, of drumming at midnight, of wearing the aingwe and ibhayi with pride. It’s the isgodlo prayers, the mnyeko’s protection, the iqhabanga’s promise.
This journey is my breath now. Each sunrise bath, each bead I string, each bone I throw brings me closer to the makhosi I’m destined to be. The amadlozi walk with me—their voices in the river, their strength in my hands, their presence in the rondavel called isgodlo. The Spirits of Sea, River, and Mountain guide my steps, their harmony the song of my soul. Thokoza, family—I greet you from this sacred road.
