The Stormborne Sisters: A Karoo Creation Tale
Introduction
In the heart of the Karoo, between silence and stone, stand three koppies known simply as the Three Sisters. But long before GPS and road signs, they were not just hills. They were memory, myth, and warning. This is their story — reworked, reimagined, and returned to light.
The Legend
In the time before breath, before bone, before the Karoo knew its name, there were storms. Not of rain, but of voice — wild, furious, generative. From these storms came three daughters of wind and flame.
Hurricane was the eldest. She spun slowly, singing in deep spirals, her voice the ocean’s moan. She remembered everything.
Tornado was the dancer. Sharp. Fast. She carved paths through time, her tongue flashing with lightning.
Desert Storm was the dream-weaver. She painted clouds, shifted shapes, left frost on mountaintops and fire in valleys.
One night, a celestial body tore across the sky — a comet called Naariq, the Thirstbreaker. It did not destroy. It wept.
Its tears fell like molten glass, planting seeds that bloomed into crystalline gardens. These gardens sang. They hummed the dreams of stars, mirrored the fears of jackals, held the footsteps of those yet born.
But the land cracked again. And the sisters knew: it was time to become stone.
So they stood, side by side, and let the wind turn them solid. The Karoo opened her chest, and from it rose three ribs — the Three Sisters.
Poems of the Three Sisters
HURRICANE – The Elder, Memory-Keeper
They called her Old Spiral,
whose eyes held the sea’s sorrow.
She sang in slow thunder,
turning grief into guidance.
From her lips, the language of whales.
From her fingers, the first maps.
When she wept, rivers returned.
When she stood still, wind found its compass.
Memory wrapped her like a shawl.
She never forgot the beginning —
nor the names of the drowned.
TORNADO – The Wild Dancer, Blade of Time
She moved like a question unasked.
A flicker, a flame, a flash in the eye.
Children say she could bend time’s neck,
turning past into present with one step.
She wrote her name on cliff faces,
carved warnings into baobab bark.
When Naariq came, she was the first to rise.
Not to fight — but to dance so fiercely
the sky itself split to watch.
She whirled until stars blurred —
until history collapsed into dust.
DESERT STORM – The Shapeshifter, Dream-Weaver
Cloud painter, frost bringer,
the last to speak and the first to vanish.
She hid her name in jackal cries,
in mirages that teach the thirsty to pray.
Her gift was silence that heals.
Snow in summer. Rain in song.
She once kissed a comet so gently
it forgot to burn.
And when the sisters turned to stone,
it was she who shaped their spines.
They say she still walks the salt pans —
barefoot, barefoot, barefoot…
2. 🌠 Who (or What) Is Naariq?
Let’s not make Naariq a flat villain. Let’s make him:
- A cosmic disruptor, yes — but also a catalyst.
- A comet not sent to destroy, but to test the world’s memory.
- He weeps. He plants crystal seeds. But his very arrival unravels time, thirst, and story.
Naariq, the Thirstbreaker
Not enemy. Not saviour.
A comet born of forgotten prayers.
He wept not because he was sad —
but because he remembered water.
Where he passed, memory frayed.
Desire bloomed like wildfire.
He brought seeds of crystalline dream —
and the sisters, too strong to fall for gold,
chose stone instead.
The Vanishing
When Naariq came — streaking across the Karoo sky like a blade of thirst —
the world stilled.
People ran. Wells dried. Time folded.
But the sisters did not flee.
They stood in silence, facing the comet’s weeping light.
They did not strike, nor speak.
They absorbed him.
His heat. His ache. His longing. His memory of galaxies.
And when the light faded, there were no bodies left.
Only three dark hills, humming softly at dusk.
That is why the koppies sing.
Because they carry Naariq inside them.
Because silence is the only song strong enough to hold fire.
The Return
A child stands at the foot of the middle hill. She thinks she hears thunder. But there are no clouds. Only wind. And her grandmother’s voice returning in the rustle of dry grass…
Closing Reflection
Today, travellers speed past on the N1, barely glancing. But those who pause — those who walk into the wind — may still hear the Sisters speak.
Author’s Note
This is one of many Cape myths whispered through stone and silence. As part of the Rafiq al-Bunduqia & Rabbānī scrolls, I offer it not as a fixed legend, but as a companion to your own remembering.
Adli Yacubi 