An African city – through a neighbor’s lens

Khartoum Exhibit Flyer - Arabic - w logo

I came to Sudan for a photography/storytelling residency as part of the East Africa Media Lab. Initially my plan was to do a follow up to an URBAMORPHOSIS series that we had begun in Addis. I came and realized however that it might not be as meaningful in the context of Khartoum as I had thought. So I struggled to answer that question. What was I doing here and what angle would this project take? What questions of socio-cultural/political importance would it interrogate, if any? How would I, as a non-Sudanese come and add value to a space that had a rich array of storytellers and documenters capturing everyday Khartoum? I felt stuck and anxious.

On one hand, I argued with myself that as a pan-Africanist, this was my city too. I should feel home in any African country. On the other hand, I couldn’t be audacious enough to believe that I could capture and investigate as I had done with Addis. My reference points – cultural, historical, social, economic and political were nowhere near the same and I was just beginning to learn about everything. I soaked in all the tales and viewpoints that were offered to me, making a mental note to cross-check ‘historical’ references to see if they corroborated or contradicted what I was hearing. I asked many that I met endless questions about this city.

I got a range of responses but most were nostalgic references to a more beautiful, clean, green Khartoum that had character and class. Most seemed to want to return to this time and place before the current regime assumed power and war followed, ravaging the country and leaving it split into more than two pieces. Crippled under sanctions that has frustrated but not prevented people from moving forward.

As this residency comes to a close, I will leave with a deeper appreciation for this country and its people who have endured decades of civil war, a separation of their own and yet still manage to maintain a level of warmth and hospitality that is unmatched anywhere in this world.

What I settled on was a story told through my viewpoint  – Khartoum – through the lens of a neighbor. If you are in Khartoum, make sure to come out and experience this one day exhibit that will be taking place at Impact Hub Khartoum on 117 Street in Riyadh from 2-10PM. See you there.

Khartoum Exhibit Flyer - w logo

Advertisements

Grumpy Old Men


Lots of old grumpy (English) men on this train. There seems to be a mix-up with reservations and they’re having a go at each other when they come to claim their reserved seats. It’s quite amusing except it’s getting a bit out of hand.

An elderly woman passes by, brushing an elderly man to my left who is attempting to put his suitcase away in the overhead compartment. He shouts ‘you stupid woman!’ to her as she passes. She either doesn’t hear him or completely ignores him as she doesn’t even turn to give him a second look. His wife, on the other hand, is completely exasperated and very cross with him. She turns her face and her body away from him, facing the window after telling him, incredulously, that he can’t talk to people like that.

Another set of elderly men in front of me, ones who hadn’t reserved refused to get up for those who had. One of them assures the other who is getting visibly upset not to worry as he’ll go get the guard. He comes back a few minutes later with a train conductor. He leaves unsuccessfully a few more minutes later unable to get the man out of the seat and returns with a second conductor who cajoles the man out of his seat.

Wonder what will come of us as we age? Will we become grumpy old folks who insult all in their way?

The icing on the cake – I of course was sitting in a seat I hadn’t reserved, but no-one had come to claim it so I thought I was safe. And it was a nice seat too, a single by the window. Anyhow the ticket conductor came by and took my ticket. It took her a bit of time to give it back to me or say anything to me. Wondering what the problem was, I asked her if there was a problem. She tells me, quite annoyed, that my ticket is for 2nd class and this is first!

Of course the grumpy old men had a field day as I walked past them with my luggage. I’m sure they were shocked at the audacity of this girl, decades their junior, without a reservation, and one class down, who sits unmoved in a first class seat while seniors battle it out.

The birth of URBAMORPHOSIS

Two African photographers, one Ethiopian and the other Congolese, embarked on a project to document the immense changes taking place in the new flower, a birth city for one and a city that the other has come to love as his own – Addis.

For those of you who’ve been following this blog, you know I’m the Ethiopian. The one who was birthed in what is referred to as the capital of Africa. Addis Ababa is not only the city of my birth, it’s the city I grew up in, left and came back to 14 years later. It’s a city I’m relearning and getting acquainted with. It’s the city that has safeguarded the remains of my ancestors, but sometimes also thrown them up whole to make way for ‘development’. It’s a city that accommodates both old and new – although much of the old seems to be giving way to the new.

I’ve wanted to put on a photo exhibition for a long time – it’s been one of those items on my bucket list I wasn’t ever sure I would cross off. Then John comes along and pushes this idea of capturing the skeletons of Addis. Why not? If I had to start somewhere, it should be by paying tribute to the city that birthed and raised me. So there you have it – the birth of URBAMORPHOSIS!

As we took these images, we journeyed through Addis, conscious and witness to its past, its present and its looming future. The Addis we knew, or even know today is not the same Addis that will be tomorrow. The only constant being change.

This project forced me to see the city differently. Everywhere I looked, I could see the cityscape dominated by new high rises, even the most iconic of Addis’ treasures was framed by construction – and destruction.

This project aims to capture some of the rapid transformation taking place in this city. For both of us, it is a tribute to the people who are constantly negotiating their place in this new flower and to the city which is forever trying to outpace its name.

URBAMORPHOSIS kicks off a week from today on Thursday, May 11th, 2017 at Dinq Art Gallery in Addis Ababa. We hope you’ll come out and experience for yourself.

Flyer - URBAMORPHOSIS

11 Rules of the Streets


1. Don’t look in the direction of the approaching car. If you must, and you see a car coming, cross. Particularly when not at a zebra crossing. That’s the only way to assert oneself and gain respect on the streets of this city.

2. Occupy as many lanes as you can. Swaddle, at a minimum, between two lanes. You know you’re doing what you’re meant to when you’ve frustrated the living daylights out of the driver behind you.

3. Don’t indicate. If you do, do so at the last minute when you’re already making a turn. How much advance notice does one need, anyways?

4. Put your hand out of your window for a guaranteed yield from drivers behind and to the right of you. You can throw in a thumbs up if you please, but that has less to do with their volition and more to do with your bullyish behavior, which we encourage.

5. When stopping to pick up pedestrians, feel free to stop your vehicle where you see fit. Don’t bother yourself looking for a space closest to the curb so as not to hold up traffic. In fact, try and aim for the middle of the street. It’s always fun seeing cars trying to maneuver around you.

6. Don’t give way to another car, particularly one driven by a woman. Hurl insults at her, both subtle and explicit depending on the situation and your mood. None of them know how to drive anyway. They should’ve never been allowed on these streets. As long as they’re there though, make their driving experiences hell.

7. Don’t allow pedestrians to cross the street, even if they’re at a zebra crossing. Show ’em who’s the boss of the streets.

8. If you’re a diplomat or have a diplomatic license, or that of the defense forces, drive like a maniac. No-one will dare stop you, and even if they did, just flash your credentials. Don’t they know you have license to disobey?

9. Once you’re done with a bottle, or a banana, feel free to throw it out the window. The streets will welcome your trash, with open arms. Be warned, though – the streets will sometimes throw it back at you – especially if your window is still open.

10. As you pass a driver that’s been acting a fool on the streets, stare him/her down. Glare as hard as you can. That will be sure to get them to act right on the roads.

11. If you’re a pedestrian, don’t limit yourself to the pedestrian walkways. The streets are your oyster baby. Claim them. This may be the only place you can!

9 Rules of the House


1. Pick up the phone when it rings. Don’t let it ring too long. Interrupt whatever you’re doing, be it eating, having a deep conversation, bathing, driving to answer. If you miss the call, call right back. Don’t allow time to lapse. That would be irresponsible.

2. Be perky and upbeat at all times. What reason have you not to be? You have not been scolded or beaten. Don’t give anyone reason to.

3. Always be doing something. Rest only when sick or incapacitated. Or if you’ve just given birth. Then it’s allowed. Otherwise, idleness is the workshop of the devil. Some part of your body must be moving – your hands, your feet… Something!

4. Be available at all times for whatever may arise. Work hours are the only exceptions. And even so, only formal work hours between 8 and 5, Monday to Friday. The work that you do beyond those hours is your own doing and is still factored into your hours of availability.

5. Eating is obligatory. Skipping meals is abomination. Eating greens only insults our culture and our ancestors. Meat must be consumed, and in hearty proportions.

6. Show emotion and empathy. Failure to do so is demonstrative of your inability to be human or tap into your humanity.

7. Laugh, but not too loud. Everything must be in moderation. Don’t speak too loud, but not too soft either…You’re not a mouse. Speaking of which, the walls have mice so don’t go around saying whatever comes to your mind. Be tactful in your speech. Know who’s in the house when speaking and even who’s not as our walls are thin.

8. Wake early. There is no known or proven benefit to staying late and waking late. Just as idleness is the workshop of the devil, so is laziness. The world must not pass you by while you snooze your life away.

9. Trust no-one. No further explanation needed but keep rule #7 in mind

Excerpts – A Lesson Before Dying

a-lesson-before-dying1

By Ernest J. Gaines

A black man in the South of the (not-so-united) States of America finds himself in the middle of a shootout in a store that leaves one white man (store owner) and two black men dead. His own defense describes him as a ‘hog’ to the jury who sentence him to death by execution. The story is of another black man, an ‘educated’ black man, a teacher – who is tasked with turning the convicted into a ‘man’.

A book about deeply rooted injustices, but also about seeking and reclaiming dignity, love, resistance and triumph.

A few excerpts that stood out to me – and some deeper analysis, if that’s what you’re looking for.

 

P8
We must live with our own conscience. Each and every one of us must live with his own conscience.

P31
Do I know what a man is? Do I know how a man is supposed to die? I’m still trying to find out how a man should live. Am I supposed to tell someone how to die who has never lived?

P47
I tried to decide just how I should respond to them. Whether I should act like the teacher that I was, or like the nigger that I was supposed to be. To show too much intelligence would have been an insult to them. To show a lack of intelligence would have been a greater insult to me.

P56
And besides looking at hands, now he began inspecting teeth. Open wide, say “Ahhh”—and he would have the poor children spreading out their lips as far as they could while he peered into their mouths. At the university I had read about slave masters who had done the same when buying new slaves, and I had read of cattlemen doing it when purchasing horses and cattle. At least Dr. Joseph had graduated to the level where he let the children spread out their own lips, rather than using some kind of crude metal instrument. I appreciated his humanitarianism.”

P73
His eyes did most of the turning. He looked at her as though he did not know who she was, or what she was doing there. Then he looked at me. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? his eyes said.  They were big brown eyes, the whites too reddish. You know, don’t you? his eyes said again. I looked back at him. My eyes would not dare answer him. But his eyes knew what my eyes knew.

P146
No matter how educated a man was (he meant me, though he didn’t call my name), he to, was locked in a cold, dark cell of ignorance if he did not know God in the pardon of his sins.

P157
How do people come up with a date and a time to take life from another man? Who made them God?

P158
They sentence you to death because you were at the wrong place at the wrong time, with no proof that you had anything at all to do with the crime other than being there when it happened. Yet six months later they come and unlock your cage and tell you, We, us, white folks all, have decided it’s time for you to die, because this is a convenient date and time.

P166-7
We black men have failed to protect our women since the time of slavery. We stay here in the South and are broken, or we run away and leave them alone to look after the children and themselves. So each time a male child is born, they hope he will be the one to change this vicious circle-which he never does. Because even though he wants to change it, it is too heavy a burden because of all the others who have run away and left their burdens behind. So he, too, must run away if he is to hold on to his sanity and have a life of his own.

P171
These old people, you know—all music except church music is sinning music.

P174
It was the kind of “here” your mother or your big sister or your great-aunt or your grandmother would have said. It was the kind of “here” that let you know this was hard-earned money but, also, that you needed it more than she did, and the kind of “here” that said she wished you had it and didn’t have to borrow it from her, but since you did not have it, and she did, then “here” it was, with a kind of love. It was the kind of “here” that asked the question, When will all this end? When will a man not have to struggle to have money to get what he needs “here”? When will a man be able to live without having to kill another man “here”?”

I took the money without looking at her. I didn’t say thanks. I knew she didn’t want to hear it.

P191
Do you know what a myth is, Jefferson?” I asked him. “A myth is an old lie that people believe in. White people believe that they’re better than anyone else on earth – and that’s a myth. The last thing they ever want is to see a black man stand, and think, and show that common humanity that is in us all. It would destroy their myth. They would no longer have justification for having made us slaves and keeping us in the condition we are in. As long as none of us stand they’re safe. They’re safe with me. They’re safe with Reverend Ambrose. I don’t want them to feel safe with you anymore.

I want you to show them the difference between what they think you are and what you can be. To them you’re nothing but another nigger–no dignity, no heart, no love for your people. You can prove them wrong. You can do more than I can ever do. I have always done what they wanted me to do, teach reading, writing and arithmetic. Nothing else – nothing about dignity, nothing about identity, nothing about loving and caring. They never thought we were capable of learning these things. ‘Teach those niggers how to print their names and how to figure on their fingers.’ And I went along, but hating myself all the time for doing so.

P198
Since emancipation, almost a hundred years ago, they would do any kind of work they could find to keep from working side by side in the field with the niggers…Anything not to work alongside the niggers. Dumb as hell, but prejudiced as hell. They had no other place to go to do their drinking—they would not dare go to any of the white clubs—so they would come here and bring their prejudiced attitude with them.

P214-5
‘You think you educated?’
‘I went to college.’
‘But what did you learn?’
‘To teach reading, writing and arithmetic, Reverend.’
‘What did you learn about your own people? What did you learn about her—her ‘round here?’ he said gesturing toward the other room and trying to keep his voice down.
I didn’t answer him.
‘No, you not educated, boy.’ He said shaking his head. ‘You far from being educated. You learning your reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic, but you don’t know nothing. You don’t even know yourself.’

P216
‘Don’t you turn your back on me, boy.’
‘My name is Grant,’ I said.
‘When you act educated, I’ll call you Grant. I’ll even call you Mr. Grant, when you act like a man.
 
‘You think a man can’t kneel and stand?’

P217
‘You think you educated, but you not. You think you the only person ever had to lie?’

P218
Yes, you know. You know, all right. That’s why you look down on me, because you know I lie. At wakes, at funerals, at weddings–yes, I lie. I lie at wakes and funerals to relieve pain. ‘Cause reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic is not enough. You think that’s all they sent you to school for? They sent you to school to relieve pain, to relieve hurt—and if you have to lie to do it, then you lie. You lie and you lie and you lie. When you tell yourself you feeling god when you sick, you lying. When you tell other people you feeling well when you feeling sick, you lying. You tell them that ‘cause they have pain too, and you don’t want to ad yours—and you lie. She been lying every day of her life, your aunt in there. That’s how you got through that university—cheating herself here, cheating herself there, but always telling you she’s all right. I’ve seen her hands bled from picking cotton. I’ve seen the blisters from the hoe and the cane knife. At that church, crying on her knees. You ever looked at the scabs on her knees, boy? Course you never. ‘Cause she never wanted you to see it.

And that’s the difference between me and you, boy; that make me the educated one, and you the gump. I know my people. I know what they gone through. I know they done cheated themself, lied to themself—hoping that one they all love and trust can come back and help relieve the pain.”

P222
‘Reverend Ambrose say I have to give up what’s down here.’
‘He meant possessions, Jefferson. Cars, money, clothes—things like that.’
‘You ever seen me with a car…with more than a dollar in my pocket…more than two pairs of shoes…then what on earth I got to give up, Mr. Wiggins?
‘You’ve never had any possessions to give up, Jefferson. But there is something greater than possessions –and that is love…’

‘Walk like a man. Meet her up there.’
‘Y’all asking a lot, Mr. Wiggins, from a poor old nigger who never had nothing.’

P224
Yes, I’m youman, Mr. Wiggins. But nobody didn’t know that ‘fore now. Cuss for nothing. Beat for nothing. Work for nothing. Grinned to get by. Everybody thought that’s how it was s’pose to be. You to, Mr. Wiggins. You never thought I was nothing else. I didn’t neither. Thought I was doing what the Lord had put me on this earth to do…Now all y’all want me to be better than ever’body else. How, Mr. Wiggins? You tell me.’

‘And like Reverend Ambrose say, then I’l have to give up this old earth. But ain’t that where I’m going, Mr. Wiggins, back in the earth?’

My head down, I didn’t answer him.

P251
Don’t tell me to believe. Don’t tell me to believe in the same God or laws that men believe in who commit these murders. Don’t tell me to believe that God can bless this country and that men are judged by their peers. Who among his peers judged him? Was I there? Was the minister there? Was Harry Williams there? Was Farrell Jarreau? Was my aunt? Was Vivian? No, his peers did not judge him— and I will not believe.

Yet they must believe. They must believe, if only to free the mind, if not the body. Only when the mind is free has the body the chance to be free. Yes, they must believe, they must believe. Because I know what it means to be a slave. I am a slave.

P253
‘He was the strongest man in that crowded room…He was the strongest man there…We all had each other to lean on. When Vincent asked him if he had any last words, he looked at the preacher and said, ‘Tell Nannan I walked’. And straight he walked, Grant Wiggins. Straight he walked. I’m a witness. Straight he walked.

It’s Our Turn to Eat

image

Things fall apart
As the ghost of Sani Abacha,
Capitalizing on Catastrophe,
Narrates the secret lives of Baba Segi’s wives

But there is
No God but God
For the bottom billion,
The wretched of the earth
Who under half of a yellow sun
Quietly chant,
‘Its our turn to eat’

Krik? Krak! (Excerpts)

image

By Edwidge Danticat

Children of the Sea

p10 I cannot help feeling like she will have this child as soon as she is hungry enough.

p11 ‘Yes, I am finally an African. I am even darker than your father.’

p13 ‘He is trying to protect us.’
‘He cannot protect us, only God can protect us.’

‘All anyone can hope for is just a tiny bit of love’ manman says, like a drop in a cup if you can get it, or a waterfall, or a flood if you can get that too.’

p14 Someone says ‘krik’. You answer ‘krak’. And they say, ‘I have many stories I could tell you’ and they go on and tell these stories to you, but mostly to themselves.

p15 ‘At times I wonder if there is really land on the other side of the Sea. Maybe the Sea is endless. Like my love for you.’

The soldiers were looking for her son. Madan Roger was screaming, you killed him already. We buried his head. You can’t kill him twice.

p17 ‘oh yes, you can let them kill somebody because you are afraid. They are the law. It is their right. We are just being good citizens, following the law of the land. It has happened before all over this country and tonight it will happen again and there is nothing we can do.’

p18 People are just too hopeful and sometimes hope is the biggest weapon of all to use against us. People will believe anything….

p21 I know your father might never approve of me. I was going to try to win him over. He would have to cut out my heart to keep me from loving you.

Think of it. They are fighting about being superior when we all might drown like straw.

Nineteen thirty seven

p48 Life is never lost, another one always comes up to replace the last.

A Wall of Fire Rising

p68 ‘If God wanted people to fly, he would have given us wings in our backs…’
‘You’re right…but look what He gave us instead. He gave us reasons to want to fly. He gave us the air, the birds, our sun.’

p74 People don’t eat riches, they eat what it can buy.

Night Women

p85 As much as I know that there are women who sit up through the night and undo patches of cloth that they’ve spent the whole day weaving. These women, they destroy their toil so that they will always have more to do. And as long as there’s work, they will not have to lie next to the lifeless soul of a man whose scent lingers in another women’s bed.

Between the Pool & Gardenias

p92 She looked the way I imagined all my little girls would look. The ones my body could never hold. The ones that got suffocated inside me and made my husband wonder if I was killing them on purpose.

…I saw on Madame’s TV that a lot of poor city women throw out their babies because they can’t afford to feed them. Back in Ville Rose you can’t even throw out the bloody clumps that shoot out of your body after your child’s born. It is a crime, they say, and your whole family would consider you wicked if you did it. You have to save every piece of flesh and give it a name and bury it near the roots of a tree so that the world won’t fall apart around you.

p94 For no matter how much distance death tried to put between us, my mother would visit me. Sometimes in short sighs and whispers of somebody else’s voice. Sometimes in somebody else’s face. Other times in brief moments in my dreams.

p96 I’m old like a piece of dirty paper people used to wipe their behinds, and he’s got ten different babies with ten different women. I just had to run.

The Missing Piece

p116 ‘They say a girl becomes a woman when she loses her mother…You, child, were born a woman.’

p119 ‘My grandmother will be mad at me if I get killed’

New York Day Women

p146 In Haiti when you get hit by a car, the owner of the car gets out and kixks you for getting blood on his bumper.

p149 My mother keeps on walking as though she owns the sidewalk under her feet.

p154 Shame is heavier than 100 bags of salt

Caroline’s Wedding

p163 ‘Don’t say you’ll never dine with the devil if you have a daughter’ she said. ‘You never know what she’ll bring.’

p166 In NY, women give their eight hours to the white man…no one has time to be cradling no other man.

p181 ‘She is my child. You don’t cut off your own finger because it smells bad.’

p185 ‘I can’t accuse you of anything… You never call someone a thief until you catch them stealing.’

p186 ‘Caroline is just like you. She sleeps a hair thread away from waking, and she rises with the roosters.’

p190 If cleanliness is next to godliness, then whenever we had company my mother became a goddess.

p194 ‘Love cannot make horses fly…the heart is like a stone.. We never know what’s in the middle… All hearts are stone until we melt, and then they turn back to stone again.’

p213 ‘The past, it fades a person.’

p215 We were Americans and we had no taste buds. A double tragedy.

Women Like Us (Epilogue)

p219 Are there women who both cook and write? Kitchen poets, they call them. They slip phrases into their stew and wrap meaning around their pork before frying it. They make narrative dumplings and stuff their daughter’s mouths so they say nothing more.

p220 When you write, it’s like braiding your hair, taking a handful of coarse unruly strands and attempting to bring them to unity. Your fingers have still not perfected the task. Some of the braids are long, others are short. Some are thick, others are thin. Some are heavy, others are light. Like the diverse women in your family. Those whose fables and metaphors, whose similies, and soliloquies, whose diction and je ne sais quoi daily slip into your survival soup, by way of their fingers.

p222 Death is a path we take to meet on the other side….we are never any farther than the sweat on your brows or the dust on your toes.

Love letter to Nairobi

image

Nairobi,
I’ll miss you

I’ll miss your ‘I’m fine’s’ to my hellos
Your ‘imagine!’s
Your Swa(g), sheng and silences
Your kenyanisms;
Last week but one’s
You really tried!

I’ll miss
Taking to the streets
Candle lit vigils
Solidarity with Busia, Palestine, Chibok, Garissa
Ranting on the airwaves
Inter-faith iftars

Paying for artists who never showed
Shows where artists never got paid

Your hustle
Your politiks and scheming politikers

Your mats screaming for pedestrians to get off sidewalks
Being duped explaining the dupe
Being held at (toy) gun point

Your social media suave
Your (tech)novations
Your witty hashtags and comebacks

Your sema’s and subsequent woiyee’s
Your kesho’s and majaliwaa’s
Your sawa sawa’s
To my ‘kidogo tu’s’

Your kuku’s and samaki’s
Nyama choma I never quite caught on to
Your Java’s and Ankara’s
Dawa and masala

Self made designers
Your local brass, wood and fabrics
Dressing my fingers, home and shoes

I’ll miss your boda bodas
And your matatu wisdom’s:
“Don’t lose your temper, nobody needs it!”

I’ll miss your bookstores and kahawa spots
Your cinemas and green spaces
Your KICC rooftops
Your Pawa’s and your hub’s

Your book clubs and writing collectives
Movie nights
Karaoke
Lost friendships over taboo

Your hollowed and patched streets
New as they be, making no room for walkers
Your low lit alleys
And moody askari’s

Your wordsmiths and music makers
Your tear drops and Mufasa’s
Your Sarabi’s, Fena’s, Suzanne Owiyo’s

Nairobi,
I miss you
Before I’ve even left…

Lamu’s Shella

image

Breezy Cushioned Rooftops
Canopied by darkened skies
Lit up by constellations and maybe even whole galaxies
I couldn’t seem to trace
Or even attempt to begin to count

Shooting stars (and drones?)
Overlook as
Flirting winds
Kiss blushing trees,
Applauding oceans
Create waves
Romantic spell broken only by speedboats
Rushing noisily to get nowhere

A solo trip
A 12 room house to myself
Yet I’m almost never alone

Startled in the middle of the night
By sad brayings of donkeys
Creaking of open windows
Banging of open doors
As the wind negotiates past…
The night whispers its sweet lullabies
And yet I’m unable to fall asleep to its tune

Waking up to the sweet rising of a sun
I saw setting from a dhow the eve before
A breeze I would buy and bottle if I had the means

7 Muathins call the faithful to prayer from every which direction
Like a staggered chorus,
Echoing each other’s “Allahu Akbar’s”

Business/Entrepenurial tips from
Stranger turned suitor
Announcing news of our unagreed yet impending wedding
Mind you, a self-confessed former playboy

Women
Strikingly absent
Is that why they look at me so?

Marriage/Relationship tips from masseuse turned confidant
‘You’re getting old, you must get married!’
Says host/receptionist/assistant/caretaker adamantly
He’s an Omer-do-it-all sort of Jack who’s been around for close to two decades

Henna painting by a mother turns into
Convo with child about academic pursuits, dreams and how far one should persist
She promises to keep pushing

Collecting shells and stones by the seashore
Getting increasingly excited with every find
Omer indulges my unbounded and child-like excitement
I keep picking until his pockets begin to jingle and sag with the weight

Her/historic visit
First Ethiopian
First meal where host and guest sit together
Feasting on fresh fish neither had caught
Sweet potato mash suggested to chef
Now to be part of menu permanently as ‘Nebila mash’

Transport by all means
Donkey and bare feet tread the land
While sail and speed boats alternate the water ways

Bats hang, as they do, upside down
From the balcony
Watching,
As I attempt to transform memory into floetry

Previous Older Entries

%d bloggers like this: