not answering my question.
I know a yam’s flavor.
I’ve eaten many yams
on our farm,
but none at Kalma.
I bite into the yam’s
pointy top
to get at my gift’s starchy insides.
Old Anwar must know his yam is magic.
“I roast it in a way no one else can.
Old Anwar’s way.”
The yam’s flavor is a nutty burst,
slightly burned, and so, so good.
I take only one more tiny bite,
then wrap my glistening gift
to keep for later.
Old Anwar gently lifts my pencil,
smooths my yellow paper with his palm.
He writes a new English word,
tells me how to say it properly.
Sweet.
Slowly, I repeat.
With my pencil,
I swirl sweet’s delicious beauty
onto my tablet’s paper.
Sweet.
Sweet.
Sweet.
I have already tasted this new word’s meaning.
BUSHY BUNDLE
Fat-shaped,
hairy-faced,
bushy body,
squat legs.
Soft-quilled back.
Waddle,
waddle,
taking your
own slow clumsy
stroll
anyplace
you choose.
Shading with my
pencil point’s
flattest side,
I color
to make your bushy-haired,
chubby-bundle,
soft-quilled back
come alive.
One question I must ask:
Hedgehog, where do you hide your eyes?
THE FUTURE
I now know what
I want
to be.
Not a farmer.
Not a wife.
Not even a keeper of sheep.
I want
to make words,
draw slants
and dots
and circle-shapes
for others’ eyes to see.
I want
to teach it all to girls and boys,
ready to read and rise.
This is what
I want.
MINE
My yam stays hidden
under the dusty,
rumpled blanket
at the foot of my pallet.
I take a tiny yam-bite each day.
Sweet.
Sweet.
Shiny-skinned magic.
I try, oh, I try,
to make my gift last.
It’s not easy.
I know I should share
with Leila and Gamal,
but after only three days,
my yam is down
to a final thumbnail morsel.
There’s just not enough left for sharing.
I have little choice but to keep
the sweet,
roasted bit
all for me.
SOUP-CAN SOCCER
Gamal gets there first.
His side-footed
swipe
sends the battered tin
clattering.
Even on banana legs,
Leila is just as fast,
fighting
to get the “ball”
away from Gamal.
She pings it,
pops it,
keeps it tumbling.
The “ball’s” scraped label
gives a glimpse
of the soup
that once filled its belly:
ICKEN OODLE.
Leila kick-kicks
the “icken oodle”
past her opponent,
charging it
down,
down,
down,
a field of no grass,
until Leila shouts, “Goal!”
Rejoicing in her win
at one-on-one
soup-can soccer.
I’m ready to ask my mother
one of many vexing questions.
Muma is sweeping the dirt floor
of our rice-sack house.
So much sweeping,
always sweeping,
brushing dust
into puff-puffs
that billow
at Muma’s ankles.
My words come as telling,
not as asking.
“I want to leave Kalma.
I want to go to Nyala.”
Muma stoops to pick up
a stubborn pebble that will
not yield to her broom’s stiff bristles.
She flings the tiny menace
to a corner,
sweeping faster,
not once looking up
from the brown dirt clouds
gusting off her hard work.
“Amira, I’m busy,” she says.
HANDLEBAR HAPPY!
Gamal’s spindly shins,
peddling fast
on a rickety
fender-bent bike.
He doesn’t seem to notice
the sagging chain
or crooked seat,
or squeaky wheel.
Gamal is too busy
balancing
a boy on the wide-armed
handlebars.
His passenger is that same child
whose neck Gamal nearly snapped
in his moment of heated grief.
But today he’s invited this kid
to ride
up front.
To be his special traveler
on a dust-powered path
at dusk
lit by glints of gold
winking from the bike’s cracked
back reflector.
Gamal speeds up.
The giddy boy squeals.
Friends,
handlebar happy!
RED-EYED ROBBER
A burglar has come to my sleeping corner.
She’s a sneaky thief.
I hear the tiny scuffles
her four feet make
as she rummages near my pallet.
Her whiskers twitch.
“You can’t hide
in this wide-open place,” I whisper.
This red-eyed rat,
this crafty criminal,
knows I’ve caught her
before she can even try to steal
what’s mine.
She watches my yam scrap
with her red rat eyes,
hoping I won’t stop her.
This red-eyed robber is stealing,
but it’s hard to get angry.
She’s leaving behind a gift.
She’s given me a giggle.
I tell her,
“Go ahead, you sneaky thief.”
Hunger won’t let her wait.
She snatches up
my last bit of sweet
in her teeth.
Scratches at the dirt floor,
scurries.
Escapes through a slit
in the rice-bag wall,
her red-eyed robber’s
safety hatch.
NEW FAMILY PICTURES
Old Anwar:
fig-shaped chin,
cheeks high,
sharp,
pushing out
from black-creased
skin.
Hatch-hatch—
quick mustache,
patched to the top
of a parched,
dark
lip.
Shoulders,
solid blades
hoisting heavy memories.
Bunions forcing his feet
into crumpled clusters
of toe bones and tight skin.
Gamal:
wide-open e
yes,
smiling,
seeing possibilities
in “icken oodle”
and broken bottles.
Gapped teeth,
ready to take a bite
out of anything that
tastes like sticky
mischief.
Dusty skin,
smooth,
yet marred by
healed ropes of
burned flesh
fanning his neck.
Hair,
a rounded,
nubby
puff,
shaping
his face.
LOVE
A new treat from Old Anwar.
This one sweeter than sweet,
and brighter
than even the ripest yam.
In its clear glass bottle,
it shines
more brilliantly than the
sun’s liquid heat.
It’s a dream
that can come
true
only at the hands
of a miracle maker.
Orange Fanta!
My eyes go wide.
So does Old Anwar’s smile.
I don’t ask where
this bold
bolt
of hot-colored soda
came from.
I learned
from the yam
that Old Anwar won’t tell.
He says, “Drink.”
The bottle’s cap
has been removed.
My dream-treat is open,
ready.
It’s warm, sparkling.
I don’t even care
about the family of ants
crowding at the bottle’s top,
fighting to dive
inside.
I blow at the bugs,
brush clean the glass rim,
kiss that bottle right on its
lip!
Then—ya!
I quick-swig.
It’s hard not to suck down every delicious drop.
I drink only half,
leaving some to share with Leila and Gamal.
But oh, oh, oh!
How can I not finish off this treat?
I utter a quick, silent prayer.
Allah, strengthen me.
I breathe, close my eyes.
Press back my urge to drink it all.
Take one more taste
of the orange-sweet
syrupy brew.
Fanta soda,
I love you!
GUZZLING
When I bring Gamal and Leila the Fanta,
they do something unexpected.
They don’t even fight
over its bright
delight.
Gamal says, “Leila, you first.”
Leila sips, then says, “Gamal, you now.”
They pass the pop-treat back and forth,
licking their lips,
tasting the sweet on their teeth,
savoring.
Then Gamal and Leila grant another surprise.
They leave the final guzzle for me,
letting me hug my bottle,
not a broken dolly,
but a sugar-bright memory
of shared joy.
FANTA FLUTE
If
I shape
my lips
to make
the letter
O,
then blow
on my empty soda bottle’s
O,
then—oh!—I have a Fanta flute.
Hooty music skims
from the glass-lipped rim:
Toot!
HALIMA, PROFILE
Red pencil, red pencil,
show me my friend.
Forehead,
rounded and proud.
Eyelash up-flips,
curly beauty.
Smile bones—strong!
The slope of her nose,
ending in a pudgy bump
that leads to full lips,
ready to say:
“Amira, come to my new school!”
I WISH
I’m quiet
during today’s lesson
with Old Anwar.
I want to tell him
learning letters
and words
pleases me.
I want to tell him
I’m thankful.
I want to tell Old Anwar
that he’s so kind,
so good.
I want to tell him,
too, my wish.
I know they are trying
to make a school here at Kalma,
but it will be a rice-bag shack
filled with Sudanese flowers.
I wish
I could have lessons
in a real school,
with other girls,
with Halima.
And books
and a blackboard,
and laughing,
and many
students,
chanting,
singing,
trapping
funny-bug alphabet letters
that flit on that blackboard.
After everything he’s done to teach me to read,
I can tell none of this to Old Anwar.
LEAP
“What snare has trapped you, Amira?”
Old Anwar asks.
His eyes let me know
I can trust him.
Words leap from me
like a grasshopper
freed from a folded palm.
“Gad Primary School—in Nyala,” I say,
my words surging.
Old Anwar
lets my wish settle
like his tasty mixture of greens and rice.
And, like his makeshift meal,
his expression is an odd mix.
He looks pleased
and questioning,
and troubled.
I ask,
“Have I hurt you, Old Anwar?”
I can’t look at him.
He’s silent, folding his hands,
pressing at his knuckles.
I say,
“You have given me such good lessons.
“I should not have spoken about wishes.
I will endure a scolding.”
I lower my head,
ready to accept
my reprimand.
ANTHILL
Old Anwar says,
“I am the one
to be admonished
for not seeing
that the bright star right in front of me
needs a bigger sky
to shine.”
He rubs the backs of his hands
with slow force.
I can hear the weathered skin
of one hand
coursing against the ashen skin of the other.
He says,
“Amira, you are right to want proper schooling,
but even Old Anwar cannot bring this desire into being.
Gad Primary School costs money.
We do not have the means.”
Scaly knuckles whisper regrets
as Old Anwar wrings his hands even harder.
He says, “And Nyala is several miles from here.
It is dangerous to travel while war rages.”
I watch a circle of ants
scurrying near my toes,
pushing dirt, building a mound.
I know how those ants feel.
They’re small, but want to climb the hill.
Old Anwar’s discouragement
feels like a gritty-skinned heel
smashing my own hill of hope.
ENVY
I follow the hedgehog,
past gutters jammed
with orange peels,
rotting melon rinds,
and broken bottle dollies.
Sudanese flowers
floa
t like ghosts
haunting the afternoon.
Her hidden eyes know where to look
to find the way.
She senses I’m close behind.
Her bushy bottom
toddles,
twitches a rhythm that invites me:
Come along.
We go
past trenches
dug
by worn feet
that have traveled the alleys
between so many
ugly
dome-homes.
This know-it-all hedgehog
has a plan.
We come to Kalma’s intake gate,
where the stocky guard in his safari suit
and green-dark sunglasses waits,
paces.
He’s busy eating peanuts,
shells and all.
He’s busy drinking Fanta.
He’s busy burping.
I stop.
I can go no farther
before Mr. Safari Suit questions me.
But the hedgehog,
she keeps going.