Black girl calls me ‘mama’ and buries her head in my lap.


I’m not her mama—just a stranger drinking palm wine under the tree.

She follows me around the campsite,

But I don’t take her home

Or even imagine taking her with me.

She can stay in the mud and thatch hut.

Round-faced with splotchy light brown skin

This little girl is pretty.

Her nose is runnin’ and her dress is filthy.

I wipe her nose with the white lace collar

Her snotty dampness touches me.

I can’t be anybody’s mama here.

Black woman calls me ‘bright skin.’

I’m not ‘bright skin’ but brown-skinned Emme from Alabama.

I’m black like they are, but not quite as black.

A young woman with a crippled leg wobbles into her yard to greet me.

She wants to be my friend. She says.

“I’ve seen you before, but never had the chance to talk to you. I admire you.”

“Why?”

“I guess . . . I just like you naturally.”

I’d like to chat, but I am expecting a package—a hen for my cockerel.

I thought raising chickens was a good idea.

The hen never arrives.

I’m left with the noisy chatter of ‘Roger the Rooster.’

He squawked his way out of my life this evening and hasn’t returned.

He won’t be missed.

He isn’t a dog, or a cat, or anything which should be missed.

I can’t scratch under his chin or rub his belly.

He just cock-a-doodle-doo- doos everywhere.

I’m sick of him.

Who has a story to tell?

Everyone has a few.

I’m ready to hear them,

If they are ready to tell them.

I won’t ask,

But when they’re ready,

I’ll listen.

 local Palm- wine drinkard and proprietor- listed respectively