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 tour, 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.