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I envy your strong strides,

How good you look in jeans. . . You carry them, they don’t carry you. I envy how sure your laugh is, how you clearly state what you want,

I miss watching you stride beside me, your steps strong and sure,

How your strength made me feel stronger.

I envy your Independence,

How you never stop trying,

I envy how you make everyone around you happier, how the lights look brighter when you walk into a room,

I envy the memory, of the strength I felt when you held my hand, how confident I felt knowing I was part of a team.

I envy the memory of our talks, how you managed to untangle the cobwebs of unresolved thought, how you helped the unscripted, raw thoughts morph into butterfly ideas, how my worries felt alittle less dounting.

I envy how you are not afraid of sorrow, how you stand firm and offer comfort, but know when to leave and recharge.

I envy the memory of your belief in my ability, how you refused to tolerate mediocrity, because you knew I could do better. . . I envy the memory of knowing that I was loved, even without it being said.

Above all I envy how you are not pretentious, how you say what you mean and mean what you say.

I envy the decisive.

We were fixing the vines of the money plant today, Mama, Baba and I, trying to intertwine the fresh growth around the thin rope high above, very near the ceiling. Our money plant has really grown, we are trying to pass the leaves delicately under the picture, that lovely picture of sunset at dawn, incased within the glass frame. Mama loves it, I love it, Baba loves it, it is glorious, perfect. I’m cheering mama and baba on watching their cautious progress from the floor, looking up, watching. . . the picture distracts me then suddenly a crash!

Mummy the picture is broken!

We are going to the market with mama today, my first time, I’m so happy, vibrating with excitement.

Mama holds my little hand tightly in hers, she is a robust, strong woman, with a straight back and eyes that look straight ahead. Her eyes are always peaceful, gentle and firm, but sometimes, when she does not know I am looking they get serious, angry, sad, sometimes desperate.

Mama the picture is broken.

We are at the market, the woman is sitted at the corner with rugged, torn, dirty, old clothes, mummy pauses to drop a coin into the woman’s hands. I ask mummy why she looks as she does, “you must always remember the poor Asante always! Suffering finds us all, it is just public for some and private for others, hidden for some and exposed for all to see in others. . .it finds us all.” She tightly clutches my hand, and we walk on.

Mama the picture is broken.

In the shade now, mummy is standing next to the fruit stand, she has sternly told me to hold on to her skirt, as she chooses juicy mangoes, oranges, tangerines, lemons, avocados, pawpaws, pineapples  and a watermelon, yum, she will make us fruit juice today, fresh and citrusy, she will then use the pulp to make an assorted fruit jam preserve, yum! It should last us months!

       I look at the other stands, one of the vendors turns to mama, he has ripe red tomatoes and crates of apples, ‘mamaaa! Hizi zimetundwa leo, mali freshi,’ fresh merchandize mama.’ Mother nods absently, hearing him, but still intent on the fruits, picking them up, rolling them on her palm looking for any defects, palming them and probing them to test their ripeness. She looks up though, nods to him, in a manner appreciative of the attractiveness of his goods, a silent promise that she will consider visiting his stall to sample the freshness of his goods.

My eyes wonder to the edge of his fruit stand, a queer looking man stands, thin as a rail, in a dusty, long coat, it is hot no? why is the man in a coat?

He casts furtive glances to his left and right, picks a couple of fruit and runs, a scream escapes my mouth, and the vendor’s once friendly look turns fiendish.

Mama the picture is broken.

Away he goes, sprinting top on the heels of the man in the long brown coat. . . they catch him. . .

Mama clutches my hand even tighter and we begin to walk, briskly now, her produce in her other hand, as we approach the crowd screaming ‘mwizi!’, a thick violent crowd, she decides to carry me, We maneuver the crowd. . as it surges towards the young man, mummy struggles to push against the swell of the mob, she finally gets away from it and hurries away from the market muttering words of equal part relief and frustration. . . mama does not know, as she clutched me to her chest, my little feet dangling, my hands wrapped around her neck, I was watching over her shoulder, I saw it mama,  I saw the man, stripped of his brown coat.

He was so young! Looked like Upendo, the boy, my neighbor’s son, young and gentle, he is my dear friend,

The market young man was bleeding, blood gushing from everywhere, swollen, . . . yet I still noticed his ribs, ‘he must have been so hungry’ . . . I thought. . .

Mama, the picture is broken.

Daddy has disappeared, every time I ask mama about him she begins to sing church hymns, rocking back and forth. I asked her yesterday while she was ironing and folding our laundry. ‘Daddy is gone Asante, and mummy is home, mummy is here.’ That is her express and unspoken wish, that I do not linger on this topic anymore.

I do not tell mummy, that yesterday after school, our neighbor mama Upendo picked me, mummy had been delayed at work. I did not tell mummy who I saw when mama Upendo took us to lunch in town, before we went home. I did not tell mummy I saw daddy, with mama’s cousin Rita.

Mama the picture is broken

Mama looks older now, but happy, so happy, she watches me getting married to John.

I met John and I rushed home and told mama,

I’m so happy, so full, I feel like my head is full of light and love, I’m so light, like a feather, I’m floating on a heady cloud of happiness, mama is this heaven on earth? John looks happy too, but I fail to notice the looks of doubt on my best friends faces.

Mama the picture is broken.

John did the John thing again last night, he abused my ideas, undermined my drive, bad mouthed my friends, cast suspicion on my family this was mean John, gaslighting after I asked about the money. I was so exhausted, I just slept. This morning I woke up to smiles, breakfast in bed, gentle kisses and a ride to work. . . My mind can’t keep up, I hate it when he does that, but I hate even more that my body and mind responds to it like balm on a sore wound. I’m thinner, keep getting gastric attacks, I have allergies now mama, I think I’m loosing my mind. . . I can’t even tell you for sure what is wrong with John. Just that I can’t tie together his incongruence, the insecure man-child, the aggressive man, the charisma, the highly intelligent manipulative tendencies, the manic self-hate and depression, the high functioning alcoholic, the sensitive child, it’s overwhelming. . .but how can I leave? How will I leave?

Mama the picture is broken

Mama the national elections are around the corner, John is ellated, his candidate is winning, I have objections against his candidate, I told him. . .I should have expected his reaction, but when he is love bombing, I pretend it will never end, my mind finds shelter from the nastier parts of our co-existence. Well he finally did it, my dams broke, my hold on this sickening addiction slackened, he said my body can’t carry a child, he’s said worse things, but for whatever reason, this was the last straw, I broke.

Mama the picture is broken.

Mama I left midmorning, left for work with him. Then got a cab back to ‘the house’, it is no longer my home, I detached myself from it. I packed and left, adding to the statistics of abandoned spouses, mama I have never rejoiced as I did, for having no children.

Mama the picture is broken.

It was not the bruises on the skin, the welps to the body but the broken spirit that left.

Mama the picture is broken.

Did you watch the news mama, they coronated the man, he somehow now represents the people, he stole billions from the country they claim. Mama I cannot quantify those numbers, I saw dissolutioned people celebrate him. . .mama I couldn’t help remember the young man, in the brown coat, I wondered. . . had his shabby coat been a suit, a five hundred dollar suit, with a polka dot pocket square and matching tie, a black, leather Berluti’s Oxfords or testoni on his feet or a rugged Jean look paired with a stylishly distressed ‘Diciannoveventitre’ pair, would he have been beaten half to death, carrying the suffering, anger and dissolution of the hungry.

Would he have been beaten had he been chauffeured to the market, instead of walking in that torn, sorry, blue pair, worn with years rather than for style.

Mama I wonder, why are we so broken. . .mama is it the image of a dream that we vote for? Because money symbolizes answered prayers and solved problems, because it is a symbol of hope. . .?

Maybe it was not the spirit of the young man they wished to crush, but the suffering, desperation and poverty he wore on his body, that, in the eyes of the shallow, where what is seen at any one time is easier to process than investment in question, analysis and thought. Where suffering takes such precedent, such dominant space, where reality is pervasive, robbing of all hope and joy, that there exists an overarching desperation for hope . . . Anything that appears, looks like hope, is accepted with openness, and violent support.

Mama maybe the politician knows this, maybe that is why he keeps the voters poor, why he continuously creates more broken dreams.

So that She, so that He, remains a lasting broken symbol of the people’s hope.

Mama the picture is broken.

I met Ms. Maya’s work in my early twenties, when I was still full of idealism and brush about aged words, not that I was in anyway anti-learning, just anti listening.

Aged words like aged wine require an appreciation, you need to give your palate time to appreciate the flavor of aged wine, the aroma, the richness, then finally . . . an acceptance and understanding of the taste, finally you can clearly articulate to another what the wine tastes like, how it makes you feel.

When you give in to the kaleidoscope, the riot of flavors, the rich bouquet of aroma and essence then you are better placed to explain and appreciate what you are tasting. Words, aged words, like wine, need time, they can only be fully appreciated over a stretch of seasons.

Back to my story, I came across her work, and at the time I read it in a rush, trying to catch the flow of her prose as opposed to taking in anything she wrote. I did not want to absorb her meaning, her intent, or maybe my mind was not enlightened enough, my experience mature enough, for me to sit, read and digest her words, in turn developing an appreciation of the words that she wrote. An understanding that they are not to be be used loosely . . .without care, but that her words are a precious trove, a gem of learning, a reminder that nothing is really new, and as such nothing cannot be overcome.

I read one of her poems again recently and found it so relatable, the ability to relate was partly because of the development of my exposure and experience, since I last read it, I’ve hurt a little, fought and won some battles and understood a little better the strength in silence and the victory in humility.

So I begin with an appreciation of one of the greats, a bowing to the lessons of age, experience and time. An appreciation of tragedy, hope, wins and loses. An understanding that in every single experience a lesson can be drawn and an opportunity provided to learn and to grow.

thank you.

Hope.