Shupiwe Chongwe's Bedforms

Choma, Zambia: July 2024

I must be at least 30% clay by now. It clings to my skin, ingrains itself under fingernails, attaching to each inward breath. I pound the milky brown rock, dust swirling around me, smoke-like in the sunlight.

I’ve learnt recently that the will to make pottery comes to some people whilst they sleep. The older potters tell us that through their dreams, they were compelled to work with clay. I think of being called through my subconscious in such a way, I can’t imagine many stronger connections to the Earth than that.

I think of the other women in my family who have worked the earth before me … Clay seeping into their pores, clinging to hair. Now I do the same, attempting to mirror their movements and bridge a gap that spans decades. The moist clay colours my skin a deep shade of brown, a shade that I used to long for it to be, an easy explanation for my African name that wouldn’t require awkward responses to unwanted questions.

This last month has been an exploration of clay, pottery and family. I’ve listened to my Ambuya share old stories of collecting clay from termite mounds for his grandmother. Alongside my father, I have watched the skilled hands of village potters moulding clay into sculpture and followed the slow rhythmic thwack of Mrs Mweemba’s flip flops against hard earth as we journeyed to dig clay from a dry riverbed. Throughout this time, there has been many hours collecting, grinding and moulding clay myself, taking time to be still and reflect on the tradition I am continuing.

Shupiwe Chongwe