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Quote by Daniel Wamba

“Some forgotten things in the bottom of the fire again The worst black sheep? The sun The best black sheep? The dark side of the butterflies.”

Quote by Daniel Wamba

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Daniel Wamba

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“One day', he said, 'the King of the Butterflies sent an emissary to discover the nature of fire. Some time later the emissary returned, saying that he had discovered fire, that he had found it a volatile, enraged substance, and that he had been too afraid to get any closer. So a second emissary set off, who soon returned exhausted, half mad, his wings singed, but the King was still not satisfied and sent his own son off, telling him not to return until he had discovered what fire really is. The son set off, but never returned. The King was satisfied — his son had discovered the true nature of fire.”

NatureFireSonReturnTalesKingAfraidFablesButterflies
Book:Nação Crioula
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“I told her one of the few stories that she'd told me of myself as a child. We'd gone to a park by a lake. I was no older than two. Me, my father, and my mother. There was an enormous tree with branches so long and droopy that my father moved the picnic table from underneath it. He was always afraid of me getting crushed. My mother believed that kids had stronger bones than grownups. "There's more calcium in her forearm than in an entire dairy farm," she liked to say. That day, my mother had made roasted tomato and goat cheese sandwiches with salmon she'd smoked herself, and I ate, she said, double my weight of it. She was complimenting me when she said that. I always wondered if eating so much was my best way of complimenting her. The story went that all through lunch I kept pointing at a gaping hole in the tree, reaching for it, waving at it. My parents thought it was just that: a hole, one that had been filled with fall leaves, stiff and brown, by some kind of ferrety animal. But I wasn't satisfied with that explanation. I wouldn't give up. "What?" my father kept asking me. "What do you see?" I ate my sandwiches, drank my sparkling hibiscus drink, and refused to take my eyes off the hole. "It was as if you were flirting with it," my mother said, "the way you smiled and all." Finally, I squealed, "Butter fire!" Some honey upside-down cake went flying from my mouth. "Butter fire?" they asked me. "Butter fire?" "Butter fire!" I yelled, pointing, reaching, waving. They couldn't understand. There was nothing interesting about the leaves in the tree. They wondered if I'd seen a squirrel. "Chipmunk?" they asked. "Owl?" I shook my head fiercely. No. No. No. "Butter fire!" I screamed so loudly that I sent hundreds of the tightly packed monarchs that my parents had mistaken for leaves exploding in the air in an eruption of lava-colored flames. They went soaring wildly, first in a vibrating clump and then as tiny careening postage stamps, floating through the sky. They were proud of me that day, my parents. My father for my recognition of an animal so delicate and precious, and my mother because I'd used a food word, regardless of what I'd actually meant.”

FamilyButterfliesChildhood MemoryPicnic
Book:Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots
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