OkimbaaA Poem by CéceTwo boys, black of skin and cheeks chafed, and a soccer ball half deflated. On the road of mud and ridges and puddles parasite-filled, bordered by green and fibrous forest, They play. The knowing of death is forgotten.
Sister comes, tongue clicking-- that is what the girls do in Kisangani, she told me. Okimbaa, it is time to come home. Her speech is sharp, but her eyes dry and bloodshot from her work: leaving at night for the city, coming home in the morning with money. Come on, Okimbaa. It's suppertime.
The ball rolls slowly, oddly, stop in a dip. Looking, the other boy tips his head at me, pivoting it on his skinny neck. It's alright. We can play tomorrow. Not knowing if-- if anything.
Home is between two canarium trees with dry bark and ropes for climing to get nuts. Made by Daddy's hands our house is mud tipsily round with thatch roof and a door painted blue. No beds, but blankets with roaches over smooth hard dirt. A hole in the corner where a snake lived but I killed it to make Daddy proud.
Maman bent over scraping away at food over fire. Her cheeks ahve no flesh. Skin tight the stretched over the horrible shape of her skull. Is it rice again? She does not move, still stirring piteously hunched. I know it is rice because she does not answer.
Hard for me-- Don't look at her skinny arms, ankles like sticks, elbows and knees and odd greyish colour and chest sunken under her linen dress.
She says her Rosary twice a day now. Life is stretched.
The rice is burnt and over-spiced burning our knobby hands grimy and blistered. Food too hot to go down throat scalds but hungry enough. Is Daddy coming home tonight? Maman's face tight enough goes tighter, her eyes are hard. Voice low and wretched, I don't know. Don't ask about Daddy.
She is worried about Boko. My little brother, with his one goopy eye and his body twisted from a sickness-- He doesn't eat anymore, it doesn't stay in his stomach.
He tries to follow me, stumbling upon his twisted black legs and clubbed feet and finally his legs collapse under his body. He says Okimbaa? Carry me? Please?
I carry him on my shoulders, feeling his chalky dry skin, chafing, against my own. He tries to curl his terrible arms around my neck, not knowing why it is so hard.
I try not to let Maman see that I know Boko will die.
Death comes I know but every time is just as horrible.
© 2009 CéceFeatured Review
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