By Gershwin Wanneburg

Have you ever watched the world go silently by without you
and all you hear is the sound of no?

Where did the time go?
It stood still, and went fast, all at once.

There is no time.
There is no waiting.
There is only enduring.

Please spare me.
Please give me grace.
Except that yours is not the only tragedy in the world. If it is a tragedy at all.

That should make you feel less alone, but it only confirms that paradise is the hottest
club in town, with everybody clamouring to get in, especially on a winter night when
you’re wearing your shortest dress and highest heels, hoping that you will catch
someone’s eye, or at least score a drink, hoping, with your fingers crossed and your
arms wrapped tightly around your own freezing body, that tonight will be life-changing. If
nothing else, you hope to God that they play your song. But very few make it inside,
while hell is wide open.

So,
what do you do with your no-s?
Do you look for the blessing in disguise?
No, wait. You don’t believe in magic.
Do you stare them down until they yield into a yes?
That won’t work either. You’re a Cancerian. You don’t do confrontation.
Ah. Here’s what you do.
First, you write a poem about it.

Then you take one no for your lover.

Take another for your perfect job, your dream holiday or the house with the vast library
with rows and rows of books and an immense oak table, the breeding ground for many,
many books, and the forest of trees in the garden: cycads and cider and olive and
lemon and lavender, a whole orchard of apples.

Take your no for a joke, take it for a friend you have lost.

You are a poet, after all, and though you may not believe in magic, you have witnessed
miraculous things walk right into your life, no questions asked. You have soared on luck,
you’ve even fallen in love.

The thing is:
Who knows what tomorrow may bring?
The thing is:
No-s cannot halt your imagination,
or your blessings.
So, I’m taking my all no-s,
to my bed,
in my tea,
to my dreams,
to my yearnings,
wrapping them up in resistance, however limp, maybe only three days from now, or next
week,
in sentences that inevitably end in questions,
in solidarity,
with you,
wherever you are,
you people in the no.

Gershwin Wanneburg is a South African writer and editor, whose career credentials include Reuters news agency and the African Development Bank. See more of his work on Substack, on his website, his blog purpletolavender, and on Instagram at gershwinwanneburg.