Amadi

written from the perspective of a working age african man in chicago whose funding from the government has expired.

My name has two meanings: “free man” and “destined to die.” Lately I’m wondering if they’re not one in the same.

The kind eyed woman places the yellow writing stick between my fingers and smiles with the light of ten African suns behind her patient eyes when I finally understand the grip. She cups consonants away from my rough, ebony hand- my palms a lighter brown, like milk clouding in the recesses of Sunday morning coffee. I want to trace the letters on the paper to show these ivory people in their swift metropolis that I, too, have knowledge. I can work until my stomach is wailing and depleted because I have felt the pain before. Pain is nothing to me and hunger is as certain as my skin is the color of dark chocolate.

I write in hollow echoes and trace enigmas on the dotted lines, but the sounds don’t return to my ears in language. Dialect dives away from my understanding and the thin sounds of English are darker even than the hopeful iris roaring against my pupils. I want the cheerful teacher to know that I am educated! In my country I have ideas and values; in my country I am cunning and skilled. The children watch the pads of my agile feet fly along the rocks and avoid the poisoned plants on the path returning from the well. I have an anthology of love and strength that I wish to share in a world that does not yet understand the inner workings of my library.

Here, I am merely an anonymous child. Any brilliance is suffocated by the dark velvet curtain laced between my throat and my tongue. The words come out erroneously- they fly from my mouth backwards and muffle against a listener’s ears. I am dumb and voiceless. The teacher sees my despondent eyes and I recognize the understanding reflecting back in her own. She knows, and that is a stronger voice than any language in the world.

I look back down at the blanched white paper fade to gray with my harried attempts and think about the world that I shed like a snake skin. I realize that mostly I need to find the words to help what I left behind: to explain the day that Adisa was pulled into the room where they keep the knives, the room that slices the souls of the village women. Two years and a week ago today I recall the men with the perverse eyes pulling her by the shoulders as understanding dawned on her and quickly transformed to terror. I couldn’t see once they passed the adobe brick door frame. I know I need to find the English to describe the way I saw the ice running, stringently, through their veins, but blood running through their cruel fingers. I need to find the consonants and vowels to recall the way she stared at the cracked paint in the wall with ashen eyes that suddenly looked like our Ouma’s. I want to scream at the top of the magnificent towers about the way the mutilation is only the advent of cruelty for the women of my village.

Here, I am mute. My screams wretch against the back of my throat and ring back silent.

The L train carves wormholes in the depths of my insecurities and the white washed silver rubs spirits away from my vulnerable shoulders. My skin will lose its pigment like an overused dish cloth from how much the world has washed out of me. I shiver as the endless time sifts past my dark feet hitting the sidewalk, but it does not stick to my skin. Time is a thankless creature that is all around me here. My dejected eyes continue scavenging in silence. 

My name has two meanings: “free man” and “destined to die.” Lately I’m wondering if death can come soon enough to the free.

Reviews

[Astro]

You've done, in my opinion, a great job of writing from the perspective of another individual, one who is everything you are not, except for a caring soul with eyes that have seen and continue to see because you chose not to close them, or perhaps can't. The topic of female circumcision is quite horrific, as is the struggle to communicate in symbols and languages that are new to the already capable native speakers. You're poetic voice lends itself well to the beautiful metaphors of African heritage/culture. Good stuff Dana, could be expanded into a character of a longer story.

[Luke L]

Lovely darkly beautiful writing here :)

[B-poet]

Loved the ending. The last stanza was my favortie. Great work. A fine & compelling read. :)

[Anand Sehgal]

I write in hollow echoes and trace enigmas on the dotted lines, but the sounds don’t return to my ears in language. Dialect dives away from my understanding and the thin sounds of English are darker even than the hopeful iris roaring against my pupils. I want the cheerful teacher to know that I am educated!

you are too good. take a bow . Loved the prose poem .

but why thoughts of death? for art's sake only, I guess !

[Anand Sehgal]

I know I need to find the English to describe the way I saw the ice running, stringently, through their veins, but blood running through their cruel fingers. I need to find the consonants and vowels to recall the way she stared at the cracked paint in the wall with ashen eyes that suddenly looked like our Ouma’s.


what a write !

[K. Louis]

...and then i read the caption and said, "aha! now, I understand" so gave it one more read..and really enjoyed it. Your imagery is top notch (but that is no surprise) your voice in this is strong.

"The teacher sees my despondent eyes and I recognize the understanding reflecting back in her own. She knows, and that is a stronger voice than any language in the world. " -- I loved this moment

...and that 4th para/stanza was intense...I could just feel how much emotion was running through this man..and the urgency.. you portrayed the experience of an immigrant quite well in your own Dana poetic voice. Very well done.