[Dau huja na maji hujaa]
Moja:
Nobody returns after they leave. The language sheds its layers.
The dhow waits, its masts sing & the narrow hull moves swiftly
through the water as if reciting a lullaby.
Mbili:
Once you become the ocean’s bride, you will be adorned with pearls.
Male predators will drown in the monsoon streams.
For once, you will be a woman carrying corals for nine months.
For once, you will not have to watch your back. Swim. It is easier than drowning.
Tatu:
Not everyone gets to the border. Those who leave become nameless.
Those left behind, eaten by Jonah’s whale.
Laugh. Howl. Ululate. Wail.
Nne:
In my grief, I write the names of those who drowned
before the tides erase what is left.
I point to the horizon. Buntwani is a casket.
I point to the clouds. Everything is woven white. I point to the sea. Her bones are half-buried.
I point to myself. Wait.
Tano:
I point to the dhow. There. You cannot unsee her return.
A dhow is a dhow is a dhow is a dhow is a dhow.
*Photo by Yacine Ghozzia on Unsplash