The Seven Lights of Nguzo Saba

Written in the spirit of the writer, Toni Morrison.

The Karamu table stood firm beneath the glow of the hearth fire, where the ancestors’ warmth still leaped and sang. Here were the Mishumaa Saba, seven candles of the promise, their lights burning steady and strong, one for each guiding word.

Little Tux, the pup with the corn under foot, practiced Kuumba (Creativity), nosing the dry, protective husks of the Muhindi—the corn that shows we are one family, reaching for the next season. He pushed them into a perfect fan, an arrangement that honored the harvest and the hands that worked it.

Beside him, Miss Penny, the mother, settled between her oldest son and his sister, who shared the simple, boxed Zawadi (Gift), a token of labor given and received, a future secured. This was the strength of Umoja (Unity): not just standing side-by-side, but leaning in, short breaths snuffling out the shared joy.

The glow of the fire catches the black coat, turns the white chest to gold. They are small in the vast night, but their light is boundless. They wait for the sun, knowing that the promise of the seeds, the strength of the collective, and the warmth of the fire will rise up with them, always.

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