The Call to Africa
The call to Africa began almost a year before I ever set foot on the continent.
It started quietly, through a family member, when I first became aware of the White Lions.
Not long after, the dreams began. They came repeatedly, with a consistency that felt intentional rather than symbolic.
In several of these dreams, three White Lions surrounded me.
One stepped forward and placed his forehead against mine.
The message was simple and unmistakable:
“It’s time to remember.”
That moment set something in motion. It led me to The Mystery of the White Lions by Linda Tucker.
Her writing opened a doorway into a world that felt both foreign and deeply familiar.
Something ancient that didn’t need translation. It wasn’t curiosity alone that stirred in me. It was recognition.
By the summer of 2016, that call took physical form.
It started quietly, through a family member, when I first became aware of the White Lions.
Not long after, the dreams began. They came repeatedly, with a consistency that felt intentional rather than symbolic.
In several of these dreams, three White Lions surrounded me.
One stepped forward and placed his forehead against mine.
The message was simple and unmistakable:
“It’s time to remember.”
That moment set something in motion. It led me to The Mystery of the White Lions by Linda Tucker.
Her writing opened a doorway into a world that felt both foreign and deeply familiar.
Something ancient that didn’t need translation. It wasn’t curiosity alone that stirred in me. It was recognition.
By the summer of 2016, that call took physical form.
The March of the Matriarchs |
In 2016, I was invited to join a several-week initiatory journey known as The March of the Matriarchs.
Ten women. Two leaders, one from Australia, one from Zimbabwe. The journey began in Johannesburg.
We opened with fire at sunset.
The next morning, we boarded a small jumper flight to Harare, where our path crossed with:
Baba Mandaza Augustine Kandemwa.
A water shaman, spirit-medium, and elder initiated through the tradition of the njuzu, the water spirits.
In Shona, he is known as a Mhondoro, Svikiro, and Gombwa.
A vessel for ancestral intelligence and a messenger for the Ancient Ones.
Baba carried the Central African lineage of healing and peacemaking in his body.
His presence was quiet, grounded, and precise.
Under his guidance, we traveled to the Great Zimbabwe National Monument.
Ten women. Two leaders, one from Australia, one from Zimbabwe. The journey began in Johannesburg.
We opened with fire at sunset.
The next morning, we boarded a small jumper flight to Harare, where our path crossed with:
Baba Mandaza Augustine Kandemwa.
A water shaman, spirit-medium, and elder initiated through the tradition of the njuzu, the water spirits.
In Shona, he is known as a Mhondoro, Svikiro, and Gombwa.
A vessel for ancestral intelligence and a messenger for the Ancient Ones.
Baba carried the Central African lineage of healing and peacemaking in his body.
His presence was quiet, grounded, and precise.
Under his guidance, we traveled to the Great Zimbabwe National Monument.
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We trekked to the top of the mountain surrounded by baboons.
Beings who, according to local understanding, allow human presence during the day.
At dusk, the land returns fully to them.
That afternoon, we sat together in a dry riverbed with Baba. We sat around him with the sounds of crocodiles
calling out from a nearby small patch of water.
Baba invited to us to support him as he performed a water ritual, speaking to the water and sharing stories of his lineage.
A young teen walked nearby leading a cow. He moved closer and stopped to allow the cow
to drink from that small patch of water.
Suddenly one of the crocs lunged for the cow. The teen beat it off with a stick. Then he calmly moved closer.
Baba reached his hand out inviting him to join us. The teen, who's name was Rungana sat with us.
Baba bowed his head to him asking his story. Rungano shared that he lived nearby
with his parents and siblings on a small farm. It was his job to take care of their one remaining cow.
He was searching for water.
The recent drought had been difficult. He asked Baba if he could stay and listen to his prayers for the water
Baba nodded and continued what he called listening to the water. And, there in a dry riverbed magic happened.
Rungano joined the rest of us as we listened in awe as Baba, "spoke to the water".
Honoring it and the land. As Baba completed his blessing, we all looked at each
with a deeper knowing of ourselves and each other.
We shared stories and lunch. We laughed, we cried and we all learned something that remains timeless.
No matter where we come from we aren't so different after all. As we boarded our van to head home we
felt the beauty of new friendships and a new awareness of the world and each other.
That night Baba told us that his ancestors guided him to bring us to a special place in his lineage.
The cave of his ancestors and the animals that shared it over generations.
The following morning, we traveled up a tall mountain to reach the cave.
Beings who, according to local understanding, allow human presence during the day.
At dusk, the land returns fully to them.
That afternoon, we sat together in a dry riverbed with Baba. We sat around him with the sounds of crocodiles
calling out from a nearby small patch of water.
Baba invited to us to support him as he performed a water ritual, speaking to the water and sharing stories of his lineage.
A young teen walked nearby leading a cow. He moved closer and stopped to allow the cow
to drink from that small patch of water.
Suddenly one of the crocs lunged for the cow. The teen beat it off with a stick. Then he calmly moved closer.
Baba reached his hand out inviting him to join us. The teen, who's name was Rungana sat with us.
Baba bowed his head to him asking his story. Rungano shared that he lived nearby
with his parents and siblings on a small farm. It was his job to take care of their one remaining cow.
He was searching for water.
The recent drought had been difficult. He asked Baba if he could stay and listen to his prayers for the water
Baba nodded and continued what he called listening to the water. And, there in a dry riverbed magic happened.
Rungano joined the rest of us as we listened in awe as Baba, "spoke to the water".
Honoring it and the land. As Baba completed his blessing, we all looked at each
with a deeper knowing of ourselves and each other.
We shared stories and lunch. We laughed, we cried and we all learned something that remains timeless.
No matter where we come from we aren't so different after all. As we boarded our van to head home we
felt the beauty of new friendships and a new awareness of the world and each other.
That night Baba told us that his ancestors guided him to bring us to a special place in his lineage.
The cave of his ancestors and the animals that shared it over generations.
The following morning, we traveled up a tall mountain to reach the cave.
Stuck in a Cave
Halfway up the mountain our driver dropped us off because we had to climb up a small ravine to access the cave.
The entrance to the cave was against the edge of the mountain, on a small ledge just above the gravel road.
Near the entrance Baba motioned for us move closer.
He then swept his hand across a group of branches to reveal the entrance to the cave.
Entrance is a generous word, given it was truly a hole in the side of the mountain. A very small hole.
As everyone began to line up to follow Baba into the cave panic began to set into my body.
As I moved closer to my turn the truth landed in me. There was no way I was fitting in that hole.
I knew, before even attempting it, that my body was bigger than the opening.
I said as much out loud. The leaders and Baba reassured me assure me I'd be fine.
Despite my misgivings, I tried. And I was right!
Halfway into the opening I was stuck.
I found myself wedged into the side of the mountain, arms stretched out in front of me.
Baba’s face and hands visible just beyond my reach, calmly urging me to shimmy forward.
My back half dangled behind me, my feet no longer touching the ground.
Of course, there was no reversing. No way forward. No dignified exit. (Think Winnie-the-Pooh stuck in Rabbit’s hole.)
Panic rose quickly. Embarrassment. Fear. Shame. The tears began to fall.
The very real thought came to me that they might have to call for help, or worse, that I might not get out at all.
Terror began to rise through my body and soul. The more terrified I became, the shorter my breath.
Of course, the shorter my breath, the more air that filled my lungs. My legs scrambling to find purchase,
but only kicked furiously as though on an invisible bike.
Wedging me even tighter in the opening. As panic rose, I scrambled to find inner balance.
I closed my eyes and began to attempt to slow my breath. Slow my thoughts.
As my breath began to slow a funny thing happened. I remembered my practices. The teaching that
were part of what brought me to Africa.
I thought of my teachers. I felt Baba’s steady presence. I felt the women in my group supporting me.
And then something unexpected happened. I suddenly imagined what I must look like.
My butt and legs dangling at the entrance to this very small cave opening. My arms stretching forward.
My face pressing against the hard rock with tears clogging my mouth and nose.
I started to laugh. Then I breathed. Then I laughed again. Then I breathed. Back and forth. Laugher and breath.
With my eyes still closed, something in me shifted. The tears suddenly felt more cleansing.
The rock against my forehead more support than constraint.
I stopped experiencing the opening as a place that was restricting me,
and began to feel it as something that was holding me.
Holding my body. Holding my fear. Holding me in a way that was firm, ancient, and surprisingly kind.
I was being held in a way like never before. Held by the mountain.
Held by Baba. Held by the women in my group. Held by my teachers.
Held by myself. Held by Africa.
From that place, my body softened. And slowly, inevitably, I made my way through.
Something reorganized. Something trusted itself. That something was me. I was reorganizing.
I began to trust myself at a level I hadn't ever before.
What unfolded inside the cave revealed aspects of myself
and my gifts that are still revealing themselves today.
Oddly enough, leaving the cave was easeful and without fear.
That, too, has stayed with me.
Sometimes our stuck places are not obstacles.
They are our most faithful teachers.
The entrance to the cave was against the edge of the mountain, on a small ledge just above the gravel road.
Near the entrance Baba motioned for us move closer.
He then swept his hand across a group of branches to reveal the entrance to the cave.
Entrance is a generous word, given it was truly a hole in the side of the mountain. A very small hole.
As everyone began to line up to follow Baba into the cave panic began to set into my body.
As I moved closer to my turn the truth landed in me. There was no way I was fitting in that hole.
I knew, before even attempting it, that my body was bigger than the opening.
I said as much out loud. The leaders and Baba reassured me assure me I'd be fine.
Despite my misgivings, I tried. And I was right!
Halfway into the opening I was stuck.
I found myself wedged into the side of the mountain, arms stretched out in front of me.
Baba’s face and hands visible just beyond my reach, calmly urging me to shimmy forward.
My back half dangled behind me, my feet no longer touching the ground.
Of course, there was no reversing. No way forward. No dignified exit. (Think Winnie-the-Pooh stuck in Rabbit’s hole.)
Panic rose quickly. Embarrassment. Fear. Shame. The tears began to fall.
The very real thought came to me that they might have to call for help, or worse, that I might not get out at all.
Terror began to rise through my body and soul. The more terrified I became, the shorter my breath.
Of course, the shorter my breath, the more air that filled my lungs. My legs scrambling to find purchase,
but only kicked furiously as though on an invisible bike.
Wedging me even tighter in the opening. As panic rose, I scrambled to find inner balance.
I closed my eyes and began to attempt to slow my breath. Slow my thoughts.
As my breath began to slow a funny thing happened. I remembered my practices. The teaching that
were part of what brought me to Africa.
I thought of my teachers. I felt Baba’s steady presence. I felt the women in my group supporting me.
And then something unexpected happened. I suddenly imagined what I must look like.
My butt and legs dangling at the entrance to this very small cave opening. My arms stretching forward.
My face pressing against the hard rock with tears clogging my mouth and nose.
I started to laugh. Then I breathed. Then I laughed again. Then I breathed. Back and forth. Laugher and breath.
With my eyes still closed, something in me shifted. The tears suddenly felt more cleansing.
The rock against my forehead more support than constraint.
I stopped experiencing the opening as a place that was restricting me,
and began to feel it as something that was holding me.
Holding my body. Holding my fear. Holding me in a way that was firm, ancient, and surprisingly kind.
I was being held in a way like never before. Held by the mountain.
Held by Baba. Held by the women in my group. Held by my teachers.
Held by myself. Held by Africa.
From that place, my body softened. And slowly, inevitably, I made my way through.
Something reorganized. Something trusted itself. That something was me. I was reorganizing.
I began to trust myself at a level I hadn't ever before.
What unfolded inside the cave revealed aspects of myself
and my gifts that are still revealing themselves today.
Oddly enough, leaving the cave was easeful and without fear.
That, too, has stayed with me.
Sometimes our stuck places are not obstacles.
They are our most faithful teachers.
Gonarezhou: The Place of Elephants
From there, we traveled into Gonarezhou National Park--The Place of Elephants
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We camped along the Runde River beneath the Chilojo Cliffs, following elephant herds across ancient trails etched into both land and memory. Our leaders taught us that elephants carry the emotional memory of Africa. Their intelligence is relational, grounding, and profoundly feminine. The elephants in the training of the March of the Matriarchs were the embodiment of the divine feminine.
They taught us how to hold space.
For ourselves.
For one another.
For what was coming next.
They taught us how to hold space.
For ourselves.
For one another.
For what was coming next.
The Threshold: No Man’s Land
On our way south, we crossed through the liminal space between Zimbabwe and South Africa.
No Man’s Land. Near the Alfred Beit Road Bridge along the Limpopo River. It's a place that is neither
Zimbabwe or South Africa. It is between.
This place of transition offered a pause.
A moment to integrate the teachings of the elephants before moving forward.
We stayed overnight at the Lion and Elephant Hotel, sharing how the journey was already reshaping us.
The sequence mattered. Feminine first. Then masculine.
No Man’s Land. Near the Alfred Beit Road Bridge along the Limpopo River. It's a place that is neither
Zimbabwe or South Africa. It is between.
This place of transition offered a pause.
A moment to integrate the teachings of the elephants before moving forward.
We stayed overnight at the Lion and Elephant Hotel, sharing how the journey was already reshaping us.
The sequence mattered. Feminine first. Then masculine.
Timbavati: Meeting the White Lions
After several hours of travel, we arrived in Timbavati Private Nature Reserve.
The only place in the world where White Lions are born naturally.
That night, we dined under the stars with lions calling in the distance.
Before sunrise, we went out to find the pride.
Our first encounter with the White Lions were when we met Zihra and her daughter Nebula.
Beings of unmistakable presence and relational intelligence. We sat with them in meditation for hours.
At one point, they began to tone from deep in their bellies. A low, resonant sound
that felt like an invitation into conversation beyond words.
We responded instinctively, toning back with a deep Ohm. A call and response that lasted for 45 minutes.
Ohm and echo. Back and forth. Ending abruptly the silence that followed filled the space between us.
Zihra stood shook her body then nudged her daughter's head. Nebula stood and followed Zihra as she turned
and walked off into the distance.
That exchange lives in me still.
We spent nearly a week with the lions. An embodiment of the divine masculine not as dominance.
But as consciousness. Clear. Sovereign. Relational. Attuned to the whole.
The only place in the world where White Lions are born naturally.
That night, we dined under the stars with lions calling in the distance.
Before sunrise, we went out to find the pride.
Our first encounter with the White Lions were when we met Zihra and her daughter Nebula.
Beings of unmistakable presence and relational intelligence. We sat with them in meditation for hours.
At one point, they began to tone from deep in their bellies. A low, resonant sound
that felt like an invitation into conversation beyond words.
We responded instinctively, toning back with a deep Ohm. A call and response that lasted for 45 minutes.
Ohm and echo. Back and forth. Ending abruptly the silence that followed filled the space between us.
Zihra stood shook her body then nudged her daughter's head. Nebula stood and followed Zihra as she turned
and walked off into the distance.
That exchange lives in me still.
We spent nearly a week with the lions. An embodiment of the divine masculine not as dominance.
But as consciousness. Clear. Sovereign. Relational. Attuned to the whole.
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The Leopard
Earlier in Zimbabwe, Baba had gifted each of us a stone animal. Mine was a leopard.
That night, by the fire, he sat with me, smiled, and said:
“You are like me. You are a lion walking the world as a human.
You’ve spent many lifetimes as a lion, several as a White Lion.”
Then he nodded toward the leopard in my hand.
“You have the heart of a lion.
But the leopard will teach you how to live in the body you’ve been given in this lifetime.
When you see him on this journey, pay attention.”
Days later, on our final night in White Lion territory, we encountered the leopard.
Not fully seen, only eyes, movement, breath, and scratching against a tree beside our jeep.
My body was filled with terror. The night was so dark we could barely see even with the headlights of the jeep.
The guide turned and whispered to me, “Breathe. He can smell your fear.”
I closed my eyes.
And just as I had in the cave days earlier, I stayed with my breath.
Not to make the fear disappear, but to let my body feel held inside it.
Held by the night. Held by the land. Held by something older than panic. Held by the leopard.
We never fully saw the leopard, only his eyes, his movement, the sound of his scratching against the tree beside us.
Eventually, he disappeared back into the dark.
I’ve wondered often about my fear that night. I see now that it wasn’t only about the leopard.
It was about my relationship with my body, how quickly it learned fear, and how slowly it learned trust.
Since then, I often hold that leopard stone in my hands, breathing into my body rather than bracing against it.
Asking the leopard to walk with me in this human form.
This body that listens. This body that remembers. A human body with a lion’s heart.
That night, by the fire, he sat with me, smiled, and said:
“You are like me. You are a lion walking the world as a human.
You’ve spent many lifetimes as a lion, several as a White Lion.”
Then he nodded toward the leopard in my hand.
“You have the heart of a lion.
But the leopard will teach you how to live in the body you’ve been given in this lifetime.
When you see him on this journey, pay attention.”
Days later, on our final night in White Lion territory, we encountered the leopard.
Not fully seen, only eyes, movement, breath, and scratching against a tree beside our jeep.
My body was filled with terror. The night was so dark we could barely see even with the headlights of the jeep.
The guide turned and whispered to me, “Breathe. He can smell your fear.”
I closed my eyes.
And just as I had in the cave days earlier, I stayed with my breath.
Not to make the fear disappear, but to let my body feel held inside it.
Held by the night. Held by the land. Held by something older than panic. Held by the leopard.
We never fully saw the leopard, only his eyes, his movement, the sound of his scratching against the tree beside us.
Eventually, he disappeared back into the dark.
I’ve wondered often about my fear that night. I see now that it wasn’t only about the leopard.
It was about my relationship with my body, how quickly it learned fear, and how slowly it learned trust.
Since then, I often hold that leopard stone in my hands, breathing into my body rather than bracing against it.
Asking the leopard to walk with me in this human form.
This body that listens. This body that remembers. A human body with a lion’s heart.
What Remains
I have not returned to Africa.
But the lions never left. The leopard never left. The teachings haven't either.
They continue to teach me, quietly, steadily, through Pride Energy, through the Fourfold Wisdoms.
Through the unfolding of the Code itself.
I went to Africa to meet the White Lions. I met Zihra and Nabu. I met the three Prides there as well.
And I met the elephants.
And the baboons. And so many others.
I met the leopard.
But most importantly, I met myself.
But the lions never left. The leopard never left. The teachings haven't either.
They continue to teach me, quietly, steadily, through Pride Energy, through the Fourfold Wisdoms.
Through the unfolding of the Code itself.
I went to Africa to meet the White Lions. I met Zihra and Nabu. I met the three Prides there as well.
And I met the elephants.
And the baboons. And so many others.
I met the leopard.
But most importantly, I met myself.
Why the White Lions Matter Here
White Lions are not a metaphor in this work.
They are living beings whose presence, behavior, and relational intelligence informed
how I came to understand coherence, leadership, and shared strength.
By sharing pieces of this journey I acknowledge that lineage.
Not as symbolism to interpret, but as lived encounter.
They are living beings whose presence, behavior, and relational intelligence informed
how I came to understand coherence, leadership, and shared strength.
By sharing pieces of this journey I acknowledge that lineage.
Not as symbolism to interpret, but as lived encounter.
The White Lions are not something to adopt or emulate.
They are a reference.
One that continues to inform how this work
understands steadiness, leadership, and the intelligence of living systems.
They are a reference.
One that continues to inform how this work
understands steadiness, leadership, and the intelligence of living systems.
