Still Singing in the Red Dust

Still Singing in the Red Dust

By Kateb

They say you don’t miss the well until the water runs dry. But let me tell you something deeper than that you don’t realize how blessed you are until the roof caves in, the bank account reads like a bad joke, and even your shadow seems to have walked off the job.

It’s funny, ain’t it?

When everything is going smooth when the sun is shining, the bills are paid, the friends are laughing at your jokes, and your feet are dancing to the beat of your own rhythm you think, “Look at me, living the dream.” You scroll past the blessings like a spoiled prince scrolling past commoners. From opportunities to people, you take it all for granted. I mean, why thank the Creator for what you think you did, right?

But oh let the water start to rise.

Let the winds come.

Let the car break down, the job disappear, the lover leave, and the rent come due. All of a sudden, you're not so proud anymore. That strong swagger turns into a humble shuffle. Your “I got this” becomes “Please, Creator, help me.”

Now why is that?

Why does it take losing everything from the shoelace to the chandelier before we finally look up? Before we finally say, “Wow… I was blessed.”

Well, let me tell you something today I proclaim it loud and bold.

I’ve been through the fire so hot it burned my ego down to ash.

I’ve been through floods that soaked every part of my pride.

I’ve been shattered like a plate dropped during Sunday lunch.

And I’ve been left alone not like “me time” alone I mean nobody-calls-no-texts-no-dog-to-pet kind of alone.

But through it all, the Creator blessed me.

Yes, through every sleepless night, every disappointed hope, every broken dream the Creator kept me. And I don’t say that like a Hallmark card. I say that like a man who knows what it's like to be standing knee-deep in loss and still hear a whisper in your spirit say, “You’re not done yet.”

Because let me tell you I still got a praise inside of me.

And no, it ain’t because everything is perfect. Half the time I don’t know what’s coming next. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a comedy written by a trickster spirit who’s just trying to see if I’ll laugh or cry next. You know what I mean?

But even when I’ve been wounded and I mean wounded, not paper cut hurt I’m talking soul-scars, disappointments that don’t heal with Neosporin, betrayals that make your heart cramp still, I never gave up.

I trusted the Creator, even when I had every reason not to.

Because somehow, in the darkest night, when everything around me was crumbling like a dry Weet-Bix, the Creator would send something a word, a person, a breeze, a reminder.

Sometimes it was a kookaburra laughing at my misery like, “Ha! Welcome to the club, mate!” Other times it was an old auntie who saw right through me and just said, “Drink some water and rest your spirit. You trying too hard.”

Now let me tell you a story a piece of folklore passed through whispers and wind.

The Story of N’Koya and the Boab Tree

In the dusty heart of the Northern Territory, where the red earth meets the wide sky, there lived a young African Australian man named N’Koya. His people came from a long line of wanderers born in Sudan, raised in Sydney, and somehow ended up managing a fuel stop somewhere between Alice Springs and nowhere.

N’Koya was proud head high, chest out, always cracking jokes like, “I didn’t come all the way from the Nile to work at a servo, bruh.” But deep down, he was angry. Angry the world hadn’t handed him what he thought he deserved. Angry that his ancestors' songs didn’t play on the radio. Angry that his life wasn’t what Instagram said it should be.

One day, a dust storm blew in strong and fast. It knocked down his solar panels, cracked the water tank, and left him with nothing but silence and sunburn. N’Koya, furious, stormed out to a great old Boab tree and yelled, “Creator! Why you let me suffer like this? I got dreams! You hear me? Dreams!”

And the Boab, old and wrinkled like it had heard every cry since time began, spoke.

Well, sort of. The wind rustled its branches, and in that whisper came words:

“You only cry now because you thought the sun would shine forever. But you ain’t never thanked me for the sun, boy. You danced in the daylight, but never noticed who kept the day going.”

That hit N’Koya like a slap from his grandmother’s sandal.

He dropped to his knees and began to laugh. Not because life was funny but because he finally got it. “I was out here mad about broken blessings, when I didn’t even see the ones I had.”

From that day, he changed.

He still worked the fuel stop. Still made bad jokes. Still burned the damper half the time.

But he said thank you now for every sunrise, for every odd customer, for every breath.

They say to this day, if you pass that Boab tree and listen close, you’ll hear the wind chuckle, “Took him long enough.”

Now back to me and maybe you.

Let’s stop waiting for disaster to recognize the divine. Let’s stop needing to lose in order to learn. Let’s start seeing the beauty in the boring, the miracle in the mundane.

You got food? That’s a blessing.

Shoes on both feet? Double blessing.

You got someone who checks on you? That’s rare gold right there.

You got your mind, even if it’s wobbling a bit? That’s mercy.

And if you’ve lost everything and you’re reading this you’re still breathing. And breath means hope.

Don’t let your praise go silent just because life got rough. That’s when it counts most. That’s when it grows teeth and muscle. That’s when it rattles the heavens and says, “I ain’t done. I’m still here.”

You hear me?

The Creator didn’t bring you this far just to drop you like an overdue phone call. You’re still useful. Still purposed. Still powerful.

And if all you got left is a praise inside of you sing it.

Even if it’s off-key. Even if it’s cracked. Even if it sounds like a didgeridoo played by someone with hay fever.

Sing it anyway.

Because that praise is proof not that life has been easy, but that the storm didn’t take everything. You’re still standing. Still fighting. Still rising.

So when the sun burns your back and the dust coats your soul sing anyway.

Because like me, you’re still singing in the red dust.