I was given the opportunity of a lifetime to help others voice their truth and empower them into a better version of themselves. I was advised to learn to listen and to give space. Little did they know I was already fed up with living under the burning embrace of the sun, being exposed, and was yearning for shade — more to shelter myself from the thunder than from the heat.

Mama Sana didn’t scream when she sang. She stomped to each vibration of her valiha cords.

As I was walking with my co-participants under the centennial foliage of Ambohimanga Ficus, I felt I needed the grounding — and also the silence. Yet I heard voices and steps in the background. But silence, when it comes from a safe and peaceful place, doesn’t come from the absence of sound. It comes from the beat of your heart, its rhythms.

Tomorrow I will be helping trussing trusts and assisting in unboxing truths.

I never really believed in being feminist. Though I was raised by one of the strongest feminists I know. She was made from the most precious redwood and burnt fire through anything that crossed her deep-rooted principles. Per atavism, I raised my daughters the same way: to never betray their own beliefs wherever they are, and to keep building their characters so they never falter.

Feminism in Madagascar is all about listening to your inner voice — and making the sound you want.

I’d go with the soothing notes that heal.

No Mandrebaky this time.