Solo

  and then falling

  back asleep

  at six thirty am,

  I wake to

  the sound of chopping

  timber,

  the crying

  of babies,

  the thumping

  of dozens

  of bare feet

  kicking a ball

  outside,

  and a little girl

  with a whopping smile

  smacking

  her teeth

  and winking

  at me

  over and

  over again.

  Foreign Language

  As soon as I open

  my eyes,

  she runs away,

  startled

  and yelling

  a phrase

  I don’t understand.

  A Village of Faces

  I step outside

  and see

  a large green field

  filled with

  twenty or

  thirty boys

  and girls

  running,

  kicking

  a worn-out ball

  between

  two poles,

  trying to

  keep their balance.

  A bell gongs

  and the athletes,

  along with

  other kids who’ve

  been milling around,

  scurry

  in military rows

  like they’re about

  to be

  inspected.

  There must be a hundred

  of them,

  bright, little faces

  all lined up

  in front of the school,

  smiling and silent.

  What are they doing? I say to no one in particular.

  I shrug my shoulders,

  turn to head back inside,

  gather my belongings

  to figure out the next part

  of my journey,

  when they all start chanting,

  GOOD MORNING, MR. BLADE.

  I freeze.

  To hear your name

  called in unison

  in a place

  in a time

  where you feel nameless

  and alone

  is as stunning

  and shocking

  as fireworks

  on a Sunday

  in December.

  I turn back around,

  to find Joy

  waving me over.

  Welcome

  HOW ARE YOU? the children say, in unison.

  HELLO! How are you?

  We are fine, how are you?

  I’m good.

  Very nice to meet you, sir, they say, again in unison.

  The children have a song they’d like to sing you, says

  Joy, who’s now standing next to me in front of all one

  hundred children. Children, are you ready?

  I am fully prepared for some traditional Ghanaian song,

  but what I get is:

  All the kids

  doing The Whip

  and The Nae Nae

  in utter hilarity,

  and one of the athletes

  doing his best

  Michael Jackson

  impression,

  moonwalk and all.

  Stories

  After about

  an hour

  of dance and song

  and the kind

  of cheer

  I haven’t had

  in a while,

  Joy introduces me

  to a few children

  who either want

  a hug

  or my ears

  so they can tell me

  their stories

  their wishes

  and the names

  of their favorite

  American pop stars.

  I wish

  to find

  my mother’s

  reasons

  for leaving

  me alone

  and unsure

  that love

  exists.

  Texts to Storm

  3:30 pm

  Now that I can scratch

  sleeping in an African village

  off my bucket list

  3:30 pm

  I’m going to a hotel

  for a shower and a

  Coke. Call me when

  3:30 pm

  you wake up,

  sleeping beauty.

  Goodbye

  The taxi drivers

  are plentiful now,

  still arguing

  over who gets

  to drive

  the American

  to the nearest hotel.

  The little, winking girl

  with a smile

  as big

  as this country

  and apparently

  a voice

  as powerful

  as mine

  comes screaming

  and crying,

  with Joy

  chasing

  behind her.

  Mighty Protector

  The little girl

  hugs me tight, still crying,

  and refuses to let go.

  She thinks you are going to die, Joy says.

  What? Why?

  She says you were screaming in your sleep this morning.

  Did I scare you with the mosquitoes? I’m sorry.

  No, it wasn’t that. I must have been dreaming again.

  Well, Sia does not want you to leave. I think she wants to

  protect you.

  I see. That’s so cute. But please tell her I have to go, that

  I’m on a mission.

  She is relentless. Plus, she sometimes stays with Auntie

  Lucy. They are very close.

  Is she an orphan?

  She is.

  . . . .

  Sia, he must go, Joy says to the girl, whose tears have

  paused since she reached my leg.

  It’s okay, I’ll stay for a few extra hours, is what I really

  don’t want to say. But, I do.

  Stay

  Thank you for staying. You will be her world for the rest of

  the day.

  It’s no problem. She’s a pretty cute kid.

  We find

  two folding chairs

  near the school.

  The sky is draped

  in gray.

  No rays of light,

  but the little girl

  dancing in front

  of us

  to the music

  in her head.

  When she finishes

  entertaining us

  she climbs

  into my lap

  and falls asleep.

  Joy smiles. See, that’s all it takes.

  Conversation

  So, where in America do you live, Blade?

  Hollywood, California.

  Ahh! The Land of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.

  Yep, the land of fake angels and broken wings.

  What is your family like?

  That is the last thing I want to talk about. Let’s talk about

  you. Do you have a boyfriend?

  I am too busy with my work for any boy.

  Your work? What do you do?

  I teach. I tutor. I cook. I help with the after-school art

  program. I help out in the village and, of course, at home.

  How old are you?

  Nineteen.

  That’s a lot of jobs. How do you do all that?

  It’s like asking “How do you wake up?” It’s what I do. It’s

  what I’ve done. I work.

  But don’t you want to live too?

  She Tells Me

  My work

  begins

  the moment

  my eyes open

  to the light.

  I don’t stop

  until the night

>   pulls my eyelids

  down like

  warm blankets.

  But I have fun

  and sometimes

  I sing.

  So though I work,

  I live.

  Wait, you sing?

  Conversation

  I haven’t had the time lately, but I used to go to Accra and

  sing in a band with my mates.

  What did you sing?

  Rock and soul.

  You mean rock and roll?

  I mean Aretha Franklin.

  That’s soul music.

  It’s also rock.

  I don’t think so.

  So Blade is also a Rock and Roll Professor?

  Let’s just say I know a lot about rock and roll.

  I see. Do you know the first woman put into your Rock and

  Roll Hall of Fame?

  Hmm. Janis Joplin, maybe. Tina Turner?

  Incorrect.

  Really?

  Really.

  Who was it?

  Aretha Franklin.

  Get out!

  It’s true.

  How do you know that?

  Because you make me feel like a—

  Natural woman, we sing, in harmony, and laugh.

  Conversation

  You sing too, huh?

  A little. I used to play guitar. But I stopped.

  Why?

  Long story. I really want to hear you sing, though.

  Ha! When you know me better, perhaps.

  Can I ask you a question? What is my mother like?

  She is like you. American. Inquisitive. Kind. Pensive. Full

  of wonder and wander. She says “I declare” a lot, like a

  country singer. Do you know what it means?

  She’s from Louisiana. It’s how they talk. I guess it’s like

  an affirmation or surprise. Another way of saying, “That

  is so cool!” Or, “I cannot believe that!”

  Some of the kids are even saying it now!

  Tell me, is she married?

  That is something you will have to ask her.

  Does she look like me?

  There is a resemblance. You walk the same. There is music

  in your blood, Blade.

  . . . .

  Country and western is her favorite kind of music.

  No, it’s not!

  Ha! . . . Tell me, Blade, why do you not play music

  anymore?

  Why I Don’t Play Music Anymore

  It’s what happens

  when the sweetness

  of life

  turns sour

  and putrid.

  The innocence,

  faith,

  and trust

  melts away,

  evaporating

  the good ole days

  into a void.

  I remember

  not so long ago,

  when I could make a girl

  fall for me

  by just playing

  the strings.

  When I could get

  people to sing

  and dance

  around me

  in ripples

  and waves.

  But the music died

  inside of me

  the day I

  found out

  my life,

  my love,

  was a lie.

  The strings became

  arrows

  in my side,

  killing me softly,

  swiftly.

  My life

  no longer simple

  and sweet

  like American Pie.

  My guitar

  my love songs

  my music

  had to die.

  That’s why.

  Confession

  Everybody loves music, Blade. Music is story. It is the

  language of love and happiness.

  Me and love have not gotten along too well; happiness is

  a foreign country, and my passport has expired.

  This is why you’ve come to find your mother?

  Part of the reason. It’s also why I had to leave home and

  my helpless father. Betrayal was all around me.

  Blade, your life sounds so unpromising.

  It was. Funny thing is, I used to write a lot of love songs.

  For whom?

  A girl. A girl who I thought loved me.

  She didn’t?

  She crushed me. And now love is like the sea closest to

  the horizon.

  Offing.

  Huh?

  That is what it is called nearest the horizon.

  You sure do know a lot, Joy.

  I know that in order to receive it, you must give it, and that

  in order to give it, you must have it.

  It?

  Love.

  Is that in the Bible or something?

  It’s in the heart, Blade.

  Do you always talk like that?

  What do you mean?

  Like a sage or Gandhi or something.

  You are funny, Blade.

  I aim to please.

  Before you leave, I should show you around, no?

  That’d be cool.

  What begins

  as a tour of Konko

  suspiciously becomes

  an introduction

  to village chores:

  I chop wood

  sweep dust and dirt

  from the classroom floor

  wash clothes

  start a fire

  try for an hour

  to balance a bucket

  on my head

  filled only with

  coconut leaves.

  I must look like

  a helpless clown

  with axe stuck in log

  and leaves on the ground.

  The women who make it look

  so simple chuckle,

  but strangely, I’m happy

  for the laughs,

  for the stories

  they share

  about life and survival

  and a history

  never found in textbooks.

  So, I try to fit in,

  at least for a little while,

  wishing I could belong

  to something as simple

  and as deep

  as community.

  Maybe it’s the jetlag,

  or the sleepless night,

  or the fufu,

  but something

  is happening

  to me.

  These are not

  the musings

  of a teenager.

  I’d give anything

  for Rudy’s ice cream

  right now.

  I’d give anything

  for an argument

  with Storm

  or even Rutherford.

  Purple Rain

  My chores end

  as do my hopes

  for a shower

  when the once indigo sky

  turns a greenish-yellow

  and suddenly opens

  like it’s another world

  leaking into ours.

  Thunderstorm

  I hear

  the sound

  of God’s hands

  clapping

  and watch

  the storm pour

  in sheets

  so fast

  and furious

  I wonder

  if this place

  is going to

  cave in.

  I wonder

  if I’m going to

  cave in.

  What am I even doing here?

  I thought

  I’d get some answers,

  but the only thing

  I’m finding

  is more questions.

  Back home,

  when it would rain hard,

  which was rare,

  and Rutherford

  was on t
our,

  Mom would drive

  down Laurel Canyon Boulevard

  to get us away

  from mudslides

  and the paparazzi.

  We’d camp out

  in Beverly Hills,

  sometimes playing

  in the pool,

  getting wet

  twice as much,

  and laughing

  ’til we cried.

  Blade, the kids will want to play, but we need to get them

  inside, Joy says frantically. The river is coming.

  What should I do with Sia? I ask.

  Watch her. Hold her. She loves the rain, and she’s a fast

  one.

  But it’s too late,

  she’s darting beneath

  the gushing monsoon,

  giggling and

  trapping raindrops

  inside her smile.

  So I join her.

  Cleansed

  We are drenched,

  like Joy

  and the other teacher,

  who the kids

  have tackled

  in the rain.

  We’ve all had

  our baths

  it seems,

  yet somehow

  Sia, the rowdiest

  of them all,

  has managed

  to cover herself

  in mud.

  Rainy Season

  Will taxis

  still come? I ask

  even though

  I know

  the answer.

  It will be difficult if the rain continues like this. So you will

  stay here another night.

  I guess I don’t have a choice. But, not in your all-purpose

  room. That roof could cave any second if this keeps up.

  You will stay with me and my uncle.

  Thank you.

  And it looks like we will have another guest as well, Joy

  says, looking at Sia, who has attached herself to my leg

  again.

  I watch Joy

  tend

  to the children,

  make sure each

  reaches shelter.

  I can’t believe

  she is almost

  two years older

  than me.

  Serious, happy,

  and cool

  all at the same time.

  Her name is fitting.

  How did she end up

  with so much wisdom

  like the mountains

  themselves created

  her?

  You are amazing, I say.

  Ah, maybe you will write a song about me one day.

  I don’t think there are any more songs in me.

  Of course there are. You just have to let the music find you.