and then falling
back asleep
at six thirty am,
I wake to
the sound of chopping
timber,
the crying
of babies,
the thumping
of dozens
of bare feet
kicking a ball
outside,
and a little girl
with a whopping smile
smacking
her teeth
and winking
at me
over and
over again.
Foreign Language
As soon as I open
my eyes,
she runs away,
startled
and yelling
a phrase
I don’t understand.
A Village of Faces
I step outside
and see
a large green field
filled with
twenty or
thirty boys
and girls
running,
kicking
a worn-out ball
between
two poles,
trying to
keep their balance.
A bell gongs
and the athletes,
along with
other kids who’ve
been milling around,
scurry
in military rows
like they’re about
to be
inspected.
There must be a hundred
of them,
bright, little faces
all lined up
in front of the school,
smiling and silent.
What are they doing? I say to no one in particular.
I shrug my shoulders,
turn to head back inside,
gather my belongings
to figure out the next part
of my journey,
when they all start chanting,
GOOD MORNING, MR. BLADE.
I freeze.
To hear your name
called in unison
in a place
in a time
where you feel nameless
and alone
is as stunning
and shocking
as fireworks
on a Sunday
in December.
I turn back around,
to find Joy
waving me over.
Welcome
HOW ARE YOU? the children say, in unison.
HELLO! How are you?
We are fine, how are you?
I’m good.
Very nice to meet you, sir, they say, again in unison.
The children have a song they’d like to sing you, says
Joy, who’s now standing next to me in front of all one
hundred children. Children, are you ready?
I am fully prepared for some traditional Ghanaian song,
but what I get is:
All the kids
doing The Whip
and The Nae Nae
in utter hilarity,
and one of the athletes
doing his best
Michael Jackson
impression,
moonwalk and all.
Stories
After about
an hour
of dance and song
and the kind
of cheer
I haven’t had
in a while,
Joy introduces me
to a few children
who either want
a hug
or my ears
so they can tell me
their stories
their wishes
and the names
of their favorite
American pop stars.
I wish
to find
my mother’s
reasons
for leaving
me alone
and unsure
that love
exists.
Texts to Storm
3:30 pm
Now that I can scratch
sleeping in an African village
off my bucket list
3:30 pm
I’m going to a hotel
for a shower and a
Coke. Call me when
3:30 pm
you wake up,
sleeping beauty.
Goodbye
The taxi drivers
are plentiful now,
still arguing
over who gets
to drive
the American
to the nearest hotel.
The little, winking girl
with a smile
as big
as this country
and apparently
a voice
as powerful
as mine
comes screaming
and crying,
with Joy
chasing
behind her.
Mighty Protector
The little girl
hugs me tight, still crying,
and refuses to let go.
She thinks you are going to die, Joy says.
What? Why?
She says you were screaming in your sleep this morning.
Did I scare you with the mosquitoes? I’m sorry.
No, it wasn’t that. I must have been dreaming again.
Well, Sia does not want you to leave. I think she wants to
protect you.
I see. That’s so cute. But please tell her I have to go, that
I’m on a mission.
She is relentless. Plus, she sometimes stays with Auntie
Lucy. They are very close.
Is she an orphan?
She is.
. . . .
Sia, he must go, Joy says to the girl, whose tears have
paused since she reached my leg.
It’s okay, I’ll stay for a few extra hours, is what I really
don’t want to say. But, I do.
Stay
Thank you for staying. You will be her world for the rest of
the day.
It’s no problem. She’s a pretty cute kid.
We find
two folding chairs
near the school.
The sky is draped
in gray.
No rays of light,
but the little girl
dancing in front
of us
to the music
in her head.
When she finishes
entertaining us
she climbs
into my lap
and falls asleep.
Joy smiles. See, that’s all it takes.
Conversation
So, where in America do you live, Blade?
Hollywood, California.
Ahh! The Land of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.
Yep, the land of fake angels and broken wings.
What is your family like?
That is the last thing I want to talk about. Let’s talk about
you. Do you have a boyfriend?
I am too busy with my work for any boy.
Your work? What do you do?
I teach. I tutor. I cook. I help with the after-school art
program. I help out in the village and, of course, at home.
How old are you?
Nineteen.
That’s a lot of jobs. How do you do all that?
It’s like asking “How do you wake up?” It’s what I do. It’s
what I’ve done. I work.
But don’t you want to live too?
She Tells Me
My work
begins
the moment
my eyes open
to the light.
I don’t stop
until the night
> pulls my eyelids
down like
warm blankets.
But I have fun
and sometimes
I sing.
So though I work,
I live.
Wait, you sing?
Conversation
I haven’t had the time lately, but I used to go to Accra and
sing in a band with my mates.
What did you sing?
Rock and soul.
You mean rock and roll?
I mean Aretha Franklin.
That’s soul music.
It’s also rock.
I don’t think so.
So Blade is also a Rock and Roll Professor?
Let’s just say I know a lot about rock and roll.
I see. Do you know the first woman put into your Rock and
Roll Hall of Fame?
Hmm. Janis Joplin, maybe. Tina Turner?
Incorrect.
Really?
Really.
Who was it?
Aretha Franklin.
Get out!
It’s true.
How do you know that?
Because you make me feel like a—
Natural woman, we sing, in harmony, and laugh.
Conversation
You sing too, huh?
A little. I used to play guitar. But I stopped.
Why?
Long story. I really want to hear you sing, though.
Ha! When you know me better, perhaps.
Can I ask you a question? What is my mother like?
She is like you. American. Inquisitive. Kind. Pensive. Full
of wonder and wander. She says “I declare” a lot, like a
country singer. Do you know what it means?
She’s from Louisiana. It’s how they talk. I guess it’s like
an affirmation or surprise. Another way of saying, “That
is so cool!” Or, “I cannot believe that!”
Some of the kids are even saying it now!
Tell me, is she married?
That is something you will have to ask her.
Does she look like me?
There is a resemblance. You walk the same. There is music
in your blood, Blade.
. . . .
Country and western is her favorite kind of music.
No, it’s not!
Ha! . . . Tell me, Blade, why do you not play music
anymore?
Why I Don’t Play Music Anymore
It’s what happens
when the sweetness
of life
turns sour
and putrid.
The innocence,
faith,
and trust
melts away,
evaporating
the good ole days
into a void.
I remember
not so long ago,
when I could make a girl
fall for me
by just playing
the strings.
When I could get
people to sing
and dance
around me
in ripples
and waves.
But the music died
inside of me
the day I
found out
my life,
my love,
was a lie.
The strings became
arrows
in my side,
killing me softly,
swiftly.
My life
no longer simple
and sweet
like American Pie.
My guitar
my love songs
my music
had to die.
That’s why.
Confession
Everybody loves music, Blade. Music is story. It is the
language of love and happiness.
Me and love have not gotten along too well; happiness is
a foreign country, and my passport has expired.
This is why you’ve come to find your mother?
Part of the reason. It’s also why I had to leave home and
my helpless father. Betrayal was all around me.
Blade, your life sounds so unpromising.
It was. Funny thing is, I used to write a lot of love songs.
For whom?
A girl. A girl who I thought loved me.
She didn’t?
She crushed me. And now love is like the sea closest to
the horizon.
Offing.
Huh?
That is what it is called nearest the horizon.
You sure do know a lot, Joy.
I know that in order to receive it, you must give it, and that
in order to give it, you must have it.
It?
Love.
Is that in the Bible or something?
It’s in the heart, Blade.
Do you always talk like that?
What do you mean?
Like a sage or Gandhi or something.
You are funny, Blade.
I aim to please.
Before you leave, I should show you around, no?
That’d be cool.
What begins
as a tour of Konko
suspiciously becomes
an introduction
to village chores:
I chop wood
sweep dust and dirt
from the classroom floor
wash clothes
start a fire
try for an hour
to balance a bucket
on my head
filled only with
coconut leaves.
I must look like
a helpless clown
with axe stuck in log
and leaves on the ground.
The women who make it look
so simple chuckle,
but strangely, I’m happy
for the laughs,
for the stories
they share
about life and survival
and a history
never found in textbooks.
So, I try to fit in,
at least for a little while,
wishing I could belong
to something as simple
and as deep
as community.
Maybe it’s the jetlag,
or the sleepless night,
or the fufu,
but something
is happening
to me.
These are not
the musings
of a teenager.
I’d give anything
for Rudy’s ice cream
right now.
I’d give anything
for an argument
with Storm
or even Rutherford.
Purple Rain
My chores end
as do my hopes
for a shower
when the once indigo sky
turns a greenish-yellow
and suddenly opens
like it’s another world
leaking into ours.
Thunderstorm
I hear
the sound
of God’s hands
clapping
and watch
the storm pour
in sheets
so fast
and furious
I wonder
if this place
is going to
cave in.
I wonder
if I’m going to
cave in.
What am I even doing here?
I thought
I’d get some answers,
but the only thing
I’m finding
is more questions.
Back home,
when it would rain hard,
which was rare,
and Rutherford
was on t
our,
Mom would drive
down Laurel Canyon Boulevard
to get us away
from mudslides
and the paparazzi.
We’d camp out
in Beverly Hills,
sometimes playing
in the pool,
getting wet
twice as much,
and laughing
’til we cried.
Blade, the kids will want to play, but we need to get them
inside, Joy says frantically. The river is coming.
What should I do with Sia? I ask.
Watch her. Hold her. She loves the rain, and she’s a fast
one.
But it’s too late,
she’s darting beneath
the gushing monsoon,
giggling and
trapping raindrops
inside her smile.
So I join her.
Cleansed
We are drenched,
like Joy
and the other teacher,
who the kids
have tackled
in the rain.
We’ve all had
our baths
it seems,
yet somehow
Sia, the rowdiest
of them all,
has managed
to cover herself
in mud.
Rainy Season
Will taxis
still come? I ask
even though
I know
the answer.
It will be difficult if the rain continues like this. So you will
stay here another night.
I guess I don’t have a choice. But, not in your all-purpose
room. That roof could cave any second if this keeps up.
You will stay with me and my uncle.
Thank you.
And it looks like we will have another guest as well, Joy
says, looking at Sia, who has attached herself to my leg
again.
I watch Joy
tend
to the children,
make sure each
reaches shelter.
I can’t believe
she is almost
two years older
than me.
Serious, happy,
and cool
all at the same time.
Her name is fitting.
How did she end up
with so much wisdom
like the mountains
themselves created
her?
You are amazing, I say.
Ah, maybe you will write a song about me one day.
I don’t think there are any more songs in me.
Of course there are. You just have to let the music find you.
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