make sense anymore. I thought I could escape the
madness, but it just followed me. I can’t stay here. I’m
going to find her on my own.
The Elders
Five men
with graying beards
and one woman
in a colorful kente dress
sit in
a circle
allowing
Rutherford Morrison
to charm them
into letting him
interrupt
their lives
with his annoying camera
and reckless attitude.
They applaud
his empty promises
of reality TV fame,
welcome
his Hennessy
and iPad gifts,
and wish him
well in his
rock ’n’ roll comeback.
But, Dad, what about the dormitory? I ask, loud enough
for everyone to hear me, even the elder who was nodding
off. Didn’t you say you would build a dormitory for the
teachers, with a cafeteria and showers for everyone in the
village to use?
The gentleman will build a dormitory, so that the rains will
not halt school, the one woman present echoes, standing
up and clapping as the other elders follow suit.
At first, he is silent, then he kinda nods his head, looks at
the camera, and says, Yes, I will build it. I will build the
best dormitory possible for the village of . . . of . . .
Konko, says the camera guy.
And for the first time since he’s arrived, I laugh.
Acting
If that’s the price I gotta
pay to regain your trust
and love, I’ll pay it, he says,
giving me a hug
right in front
of the camera.
All day
in the burning sun,
the camera is in
our faces
like an invader
from planet
Hollywood.
I try to ignore, but
it captures
every word,
each drop of sweat,
every bite of food.
A little obnoxious while we feed our faces, don’t you
think? Can we take a break from the filming now?
He pops up
zooms in
and out
as Rutherford,
Birdie, and Uncle Stevie
prance around
like the Three Stooges
leading a parade
of innocents.
By day’s end
the camera
is still here
along with
the last streams
of sunlight
to close out the day,
and the kids
can’t get enough.
The smiles
on their faces
as they perform
for the camera,
singing, twirling, dancing,
and jumping around
say it all:
happiness, raw like
unfiltered honey.
They ask for playbacks
so they can
see themselves
for the first time.
They hover
around
camera guy’s monitor
and watch
their lives
unfold in laughter
and hugs.
Mirrors
The kids act like they’ve never seen themselves. Don’t
you have mirrors here?
Why do we need mirrors when we can see the reflection of
our goodness in the way others react to us?
Seriously, sometimes you need to check out your hair or
make sure you don’t have food in your teeth.
Look at the mirrors in your friends’ eyes. That’s all anyone
ever needs. To see beauty and reflection in others. Those
are real mirrors.
Okay, I get it.
You are so gullible, Blade. Of course we have mirrors—
well, most of us do, she says, laughing.
But it made sense.
Of course it did. Two things can be true at the same time.
Then she gets close
to my face,
and in her eyes
I see my reflection.
It’s surprisingly happy
for the first time
in a while.
C’mon, Elvis is back.
Elvis?
The guide. It seems he is back just in time for you to leave.
In their language
Elvis
tells Joy
that my mother
is still
in the mountains
and that he will
go back in five days
if it does not rain,
and, yes,
the American
can come
along.
Thank him, Joy, I say, but I am not waiting five days. Can
you please ask him if he’d be kind enough to accept cash
to take me tomorrow? Please?
Game Night
Another night
of music
and games—this
time
Sia and I
play Freeze
and Hot Potato—
but the highlight
for her
is the tickle fight
she and Rutherford
have, that leaves him
passed out
on the bunkbed
and me
and Joy
laughing so hard
we decide
to go for a walk.
People Are People
Two hundred dollars is more than a kind gesture. I will ask
Elvis to accept half.
That’s not necessary. I just want to get on with this. I’m
tired of waiting.
. . . .
. . . .
Are you nervous?
Very. But I’m excited too. This is finally happening.
I’m happy for you. I am glad you came here.
Me too.
Your father does not need to build us a dormitory, please
tell him that.
He seems serious, and, I mean, you do need it.
How do I say this without sounding ungrateful?
Huh?
The people who come here to help never ask us what we
need. They tell us.
. . . .
One church started the school, another promised to fix it.
One group built two wells, but didn’t leave any tools or
show us how to repair it.
That’s why you have to walk so far for water?
I am appreciative. We are all appreciative. These things
help us, but it would be nice to be asked sometimes what
we want.
What do you want?
A stove would be nice. Perhaps, a washing machine, she
says, laughing.
Really?
The women spend half of the day washing clothes. There
is no time for their own self-development. There is no time
to help their children with homework. We are so busy
cleaning.
I see.
Maybe I will come visit you in America one day.
That would be nice.
Blade, there is something I must tell you. There are some
whose eyes grow big at the sight of cash. They see your
father as a treasure chest, and they think Konko has struck
gold.
What does that mean?
People are people everywhere, Blade. We have gold diggers
here too.
I like you, Joy. I think I—
Good night, Blade, she says, and it’s only then,
when she lets go
of my hand,
do I realize
I’ve been holding hers
for the last ten minutes.
I wake up
to a familiar song
sung by
a hundred
little perfect voices
and one screaming
guitar.
Hey, kid, get up, it’s your big day, Uncle Stevie says,
hitting me with a pillow.
Standing outside
the bus
is a washed-out rock star
with a five-year-old angel
on his shoulder
and a
multitude
of shining sons
and daughters
drumming
dancing
and singing.
For me.
Happy Birthday
On the one hand,
I’m probably
the only kid
on earth
who forgot
his eighteenth birthday.
On the other,
can you really blame me
for not being eager
to celebrate
eighteen years of
not knowing
who made me
or why?
A Gift Returned
Rutherford hands
Sia to me,
climbs
into the bus
and shouts . . .
Be right back. Nobody move!
Then reappears
with
a guitar.
A fancy new one.
He walks over to me
like he’s gonna
serenade me.
Another one to add to your collection, huh? I ask.
Not my collection. This one’s for you.
It looks like
it dropped
from heaven.
The sexiest acoustic-electric guitar
I’ve ever seen.
This had Blade written all over it, he says to me.
I don’t know what to say.
Well, you could start by saying, Sorry I crushed that
priceless Van Halen, Dad.
I don’t, I mean, I—
Kid, this is pure Madagascar rosewood. Rare as love. Just
thank him, and play something, Uncle Stevie says.
Thank you.
It’s beautiful; what are you going to play? Joy says,
knowing full well, I won’t.
It’s nice, but I’m not really . . . I mean—
Play, play, Sia interrupts, getting louder with each echo.
PLAY!
I take the guitar
from Rutherford,
before she starts
breaking my heart
with her tears.
Maybe later, I lie, letting her pluck the strings.
But it does feel good
to hold
a guitar
again.
Sure, I’ve missed
the love songs
and the memories
embedded
in the strings.
The weight
of comfort
in my arms.
The feel
of the tuning keys
twisting
between fingers.
The blue-streak buzz
of voltage vibrating
in my head.
That was the guitar
I loved.
How many days has it been?
How many hours of longing
for the purple haze
to find me
again.
But this. Now.
I don’t think so.
I’ve lost my chance
to get
the spark back.
Before I leave
we eat sweet butter
cake
from a bakery
in town
and play more games.
Sia runs
in and out of
a tower of legs,
chasing me.
Chasing Rutherford.
Climbing
my back
and his
like we’re mountains
or trees.
She braids
and twists
his long,
outrageous hair.
Rubs her fingers
in mine,
reminding me
of happy times.
I will miss her.
When We Were Younger
Sometimes,
on special occasions,
at the end
of a show,
Rutherford
would bring me
and Storm on stage
in front of
tens of thousands
of screaming fans
and introduce us
as his little
superheroes.
Then he would
let her sing
any song
she wanted:
“Twinkle, Twinkle,”
“This Little Light,”
and while she
wailed, mostly off-key,
he’d strum,
with his right hand,
a melody for her.
And with his left,
he’d massage
my head,
which was his way
of saying I love you
and Everything’s
gonna be okay.
I believed him,
despite
all our madness.
And, I guess
I still do.
Track 11: With or Without You
ROCKERS: U2 / ALBUM: THE JOSHUA TREE / LABEL: ISLAND / RECORDING DATE: JANUARY 1986–JANUARY 1987 / STUDIO: DANESMOATE HOUSE, DUBLIN, IRELAND
A haunting
aching song
about the complex
tangled vines
that leave you
feeling twisted
and crazy,
yet connected
and unable
to let go
of the possibility
that one day
the vines will
produce flower
or fruit
or something worth
all the pain.
Rutherford and I
have been
twisted
into a knot of
our own making
for so long
that I don’t even
know if I can
loosen up.
Parting
Happy Birthday, Blade, Joy says, handing me a red-black-
and-gold hand-stitched bangle with my name on it.
Thank you, Joy. This is so cool! One of your many
talents?
I suppose.
I will never take it off.
Remember me by it.
It’s not like I’m leaving forever. I’ve got to come back this
way.
I know. I guess we’re just used to you. Are you packed?
Just a backpack.
You will not admit it, but you’re happy he’s here, she says.
I’m happy,
when he’s sober
and clean
when he’s kind
and generous
with the children
when he’s a father
and puts us before
the addiction
of fame
when he shreds
the guitar
like a madman
and gives everything
to the music.
When he belts out
songs
in my mother’s honor
and shows me
that quitting this life
>
is not an option.
Yeah, that’s when I’m happy, I reply.
Words
Most of the children here
speak better English
than us,
and Sia really seems
to be interested in learning
as many words
as she can consume.
I teach her
brave
and smart, then hug
her goodbye
without saying it.
Rutherford teaches her
reverb and rock
and Fender.
She teaches us
to count to ten
in native tongue.
But what does your name mean, Sia? Rutherford asks,
as she runs off
with one of his
bawdy gold chains.
And he chases her wildly,
both of them
going nowhere
in particular, and
everywhere
at the same time.
What does her name mean, Joy?
It means “to help.”
They return
moments later
with Birdie
cradling Rutherford
in one arm
and holding Sia
in the other.
He’s sweating,
which is not unusual
given that it’s
95 degrees,
but he’s shaking too,
which is unusual
given that it’s
95 degrees.
Let’s get him inside the bus, Birdie says.
Why? What’s happening?
Withdrawal
I’ve seen this before.
Many times.
Once the alcohol
and drugs
start leaving
the system,
the sweats
the sleeplessness
and dry heaves
kick in.
Rutherford craves,
rocks
back and forth,
fighting off
a demon
that lives
in his body
that whispers
temptation
in his mind.
Conversation
I’ve done this a million times. He just has to want it. But
I’m working with him, Birdie says.
. . . .
He called me five days ago. He was really in a bad way.
. . . .
You’re not saying much.
Not much to say, is there . . . Looks like I’m still stuck
here.
Detox
Only after Sia
falls asleep
is Joy able
to take her
off the bus
Solo Page 14
