Whispers of the Gabyaa: Echoes Across Generations

Warm, golden light spilled across the room, soft as honey, casting gentle shadows that danced along the walls. People of all ages gathered in a loose circle, a tapestry of generations woven together by memory and presence. The air was alive with anticipation—whispers floated like smoke as children leaned toward their parents for quiet explanations, while elders closed their eyes, recalling voices from decades past.

This was a night of Gabyaa, the ancient Somali poetic form that has traveled across deserts, plains, and oceans, carrying with it the wisdom, sorrow, and joy of countless lives. Once spoken beneath the vast African sky, beneath the shade of acacia trees, or in the heart of village debates, the Gabyaa now filled a city hall, bridging worlds and centuries in a single breath. Each word felt weighty, yet effortless, like wind moving through the grasslands, carrying stories that refused to fade.

The verses unfolded slowly, deliberately, each syllable a drumbeat echoing through the hearts of the listeners. Some lines made the young repeat softly under their breath, not merely memorizing, but learning to feel the rhythm as their ancestors had. Others stirred deep remembrance in the elders, bringing back voices long silenced, names long forgotten, and the pulse of lands they had left behind. The poetry was at once gentle and commanding—a reminder that language is more than speech; it is a vessel of identity, a guardian of memory.

Time seemed to stretch, folding past into present. Laughter and sighs punctuated the recitations, and for a moment, it felt as though the distance between continents had disappeared. The walls of the room became porous; the voices of the past slipped through, mingling with those of the young, and together they wove a living tapestry of sound and meaning. Every pause, every rise and fall, carried the weight of generations who had used words not only to speak, but to guide, console, and inspire.

By the time the last verses faded, silence settled like a soft cloak. It was a silence full of awe, of gratitude, of recognition. This was more than poetry—it was inheritance. It was a reminder that even far from home, the rhythms, wisdom, and spirit of a people endure, carried in the hearts of those who listen and repeat. In that small hall, the Gabyaa was alive, breathing, and eternal—a bridge between who they were, who they are, and who they will become.