Flash design of an infinity symbol made of flying birds, with hakuna matata written in script lettering in pastel and teal tones.

Infinity symbol of birds with hakuna matata script

Lettering · Colour · Flash

The design forms an infinity symbol made of small bird silhouettes in flight, with the words hakuna matata written in flowing script across the centre crossing. The birds and lettering are filled with soft pastel, teal and blue tones that fade across the design. It is shown as a clean graphic on a pale cream background with no skin visible.

Lettering Geometric Infinity Bird Script Flight

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The starlings came over the bean fields at dusk, the way they always did, and you were still standing in the lane with the wheelbarrow half full of windfall apples when Auntie Ruth shouted from the gate that you would miss them if you kept dawdling. You didn't move. You never moved for the birds when you were nine, and at twenty-six you still wanted to watch them tie themselves into a loop above the larches, thinning out at one end and gathering at the other, as if someone had drawn a lazy number eight across the sky with a wet finger.

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"Hakuna matata," Ruth said when you finally reached the gate. She had been to Arusha once, in the seventies, on a coach tour she never stopped talking about, and she said the words the way other people said grace. No worries, she told you. Nothing to fret about. You had heard it a hundred times and it had never sounded like advice until that October, when the letter from the council arrived about the cottage and the orchard and the footpath that would be sold to a man from Reading.

You took the wheelbarrow down the lane anyway. The birds went round again, dark at the crossing, pale at the rims, and you counted them the way Ruth had taught you to count sheep, losing track at thirty and starting over. Somewhere in the middle of the second circuit you stopped counting and let them go on without you, the flock thinning into the trees where the path bends toward the mill.

Ruth was asleep in her chair when you got in, the kettle cold on the hob, the letter face down under the sugar bowl. You tipped the apples into the basin by the sink and sat down beside her. Outside, the last starling swung through the dusk and came back round, as if the sky had only ever been a long loop with you somewhere along it, and that was all right for now.