Solo

by Kwame Alexander

  It is. And you are?

  Blade.

  Blade, like the American movie with Wesley Snipes?

  That’s it.

  Are you a superhero?

  Not at all.

  Well, it is nice to meet you, Mr. Blade.

  Nice to meet you, Joy. Are you from England?

  Why do you say that?

  Your accent, there’s, like, hints of British. The taxi guy

  too.

  Hmmm. Colonization. Blame it on the queen.

  Right.

  You could use some water, it seems.

  That was a very, very long walk.

  Only if you’ve never done it.

  You’ve done it?

  Twice a week. Some of my students, twice a day.

  . . . .

  Down the road, over there is a shop. We can get some

  bottled water there.

  I don’t mind drinking the well water.

  Even with your American malaria pills, this water is not

  safe.

  Well, can I help you with the water?

  No, Mr. Blade, I can handle it.

  Three buckets of water and two arms—are you sure?

  I have been carrying buckets since I was three. I am sure.

  If you say so.

  So tell me, Mr. Blade, what are you doing here?

  Looking for someone.

  Detective Blade.

  Not like that. I think my mother is here.

  There are no other missionaries here but you, I’m afraid.

  I’m not a missionary.

  All Americans who come here are on a mission.

  I am on a mission, but it’s just to find my birth mother.

  Interesting. You are not here to save us?

  I got enough problems of my own, trust me. I’m here to

  close a chapter.

  I see. Well, what is your mother’s name?

  Lucy. Lucy November.

  Lucy November is your mother?

  I think so. So you know her?

  Yes, I do. Lucy November is my auntie.

  So, we’re cousins?

  Not exactly.

  I don’t understand.

  It is a sign of respect, in Ghana, for women who take

  responsibility for nurturing and protecting, who look

  out for the children in their lives like Ms. Lucy does. It is

  protocol to say Auntie.

  So, can you take me to her?

  I can’t, but I know who can, Blade. Come, I will explain.

  Joy walks

  like

  she could balance Venus

  on her head.

  Not a drop of water

  spills

  from the two medium pails

  on each hand

  or the large bucket

  centered

  on her head.

  How is that possible?

  She doesn’t trip

  on a stone

  or tree root,

  or look to find

  her steps.

  She just knows

  the way

  of the sun

  and her hips

  sway like a wave

  keeping time.

  She stops,

  turns around,

  fluid

  like the water,

  and looks at me.

  Are you staring, Mr. Blade?

  I’m not staring. But you can at least let me take one.

  I am fine. Medase!

  That means thank you, right?

  It does. And I do thank you. But, I’ve got this.

  Akwaaba!

  I am welcome?

  You said, Thank you, I was saying, You’re welcome.

  Ahhh! Yennaase is “you’re welcome.”

  Oh, sorry about that.

  It’s okay, Blade, you’re trying. Most American’s don’t.

  Joy, how far are we walking?

  Not too far—we’re close.

  . . . .

  Twenty minutes later

  we arrive

  at a house—

  if you can call it that—

  made out of

  red dirt

  and slabs of wood.

  Just put your bag down over there, she says, pointing to a

  pile of rocks and a pot.

  So, where can I find Lucy?

  Konko is a big place. There are almost a thousand people

  spread throughout it. Most are here, but there are some in

  a neighboring community, and a small group in a remote

  settlement. Auntie Lucy is visiting there.

  In the settlement. Why?

  They do not have a lot up there. Even less than we have. She

  goes to help. With school. With medicine. With food.

  How far is it?

  Not—

  Yeah, not far, I know. How many miles?

  Twenty-five kilometers, but you will need a guide.

  A guide?

  It’s on the other side of mountain and rainforest. You can

  drive for a quarter of the way. The rest is walking, and you

  will need a guide.

  And where might I find the guide?

  He goes up once a week.

  When is the next time he’s leaving?

  He left this morning.

  Can we call her?

  No Reception

  Of course,

  there are no

  working cell phones

  in that remote

  settlement

  because there are no

  cell towers

  on the other side

  of mountain

  and rainforest.

  Perhaps we can send

  an African pigeon

  with a note,

  I want to say

  in frustration.

  But, of course,

  I don’t.

  It is impolite

  to turn down

  a dinner invitation, she says,

  handing me a bottle

  of Volvic water.

  How much do I owe you?

  Three cedis.

  I haven’t exchanged my money yet. How much is that?

  Oh, sixty dollars.

  Very funny.

  My treat, she says,

  pounding flour

  and water

  in a bowl

  along with several

  other women

  in the village,

  while they speak

  in a language

  I can’t understand,

  though I can tell

  they are talking

  about me

  by the laughter

  and the stares.

  Her Village

  is bustling

  and bursting

  with children

  chasing goats

  and soccer balls,

  while their mothers

  cook, wash, laugh,

  and dance

  all at the same time,

  to what sounds like

  James Brown,

  only faster,

  with heavy drums

  and lots of chants.

  The energy here

  is familial,

  jovial even.

  It rivals Hollywood Boulevard,

  only less glitz

  more raw

  and real.

  The men are off

  cutting timber

  growing cocoa

  farming

  all day

  for their families.

  Each person

  I pass

  waves

  like they know me

  or they want to.

  It is a good feeling

  not to be recognized

  and still noticed.

  Track 8: Zombie

  ROCKER: FELA KUTI / ALBUM: ZOMBIE / LABEL: COCONUT RECORDS / RECORDING DATE: 1975 / STUDIO: NIGERIA

  The music they’
re dancing to, what is it?

  Fela. FELA KUTI! Rabble-rouser.

  Sounds like funk jazz rock dance music all mixed up.

  The king of Afrobeat.

  This song is long. It’s been playing forever.

  Epic songs. Some are ten, some are twenty minutes long.

  He’s Ghanaian?

  From Nigeria, but all of Africa loves Fela.

  Where is the music coming from?

  There is a boom box and big speakers in a truck down the

  way. DJ Enoch entertains us.

  A boom box? Wow! Haven’t seen one of those in a while.

  The song is called “Zombie.” But, not your American

  zombies. It’s about soldiers who don’t think for themselves,

  they just follow orders. The song got him into a lot of

  trouble.

  Like what?

  Ironically, he was banned from Ghana. And because of the

  song, the very soldiers he spoke out against were ordered to

  kill his mother.

  Did they?

  The zombies did.

  For a song? That’s crazy.

  Music is powerful, Blade.

  Fufu

  For dinner,

  I hesitantly eat

  what looks like

  dough

  and tastes

  like nothing good

  until

  I dip it in a bowl

  of peanut soup

  and eat every last

  piece.

  And when it’s gone

  I try to eat

  what lingers

  on my fingers.

  Conversation

  Where will you stay tonight?

  Do you have hotels?

  There are plenty back in Accra. A few near the junction.

  You mean back up the long hike?

  Taxis will come, but they are random in the evening. More

  in the mornings.

  Seriously?

  There’s always tomorrow.

  Medase.

  I hear sarcasm.

  . . . .

  There is a bed in the school. You can sleep there.

  What about a shower? Anywhere around here to do that?

  What do you think the water was for, boss?

  Of course.

  On the way

  to the school

  something runs

  in front of us,

  and when I ask

  Joy what it is,

  she smiles, and says,

  If we’re lucky,

  tomorrow’s soup.

  Conversation

  That’s not funny at all.

  It most certainly isn’t.

  Where I come from, that was a rat. A big ole rat.

  Grasscutter is a delicacy.

  I’ll pass.

  So what brings you here to talk to your mom, Lucy? You

  know, I had no idea she had a son.

  I just found out that I was adopted.

  And who are your adoptive parents now?

  My mother died when I was eight.

  Koo se. I am sorry.

  My father and sister are back home.

  They must miss you, yes?

  It’s complicated.

  Is it?

  Where is your family?

  They live in Volta region.

  How far is that?

  A long way.

  So, why are you here?

  I came to take care of my uncle. He is old and doesn’t see.

  I’m sorry.

  You are sorry a lot. It’s life, Mr. Blade.

  Please just call me Blade.

  These are your quarters, Blade.

  This is your school?

  This is it.

  Oh.

  Home

  We are

  in a building,

  if you can call it that,

  smaller than

  my Hollywood bedroom.

  It has three rooms

  no doors

  no windows.

  We stand in the largest.

  I can see

  the stars

  through holes

  in the roof

  held up

  by four logs

  shooting up

  from a dirt floor

  with rows

  and rows

  of chairs

  and a cross,

  which lets me know

  this is also a church.

  God help me.

  Conversation

  We will make a pallet over there, she says, pointing to a

  wooden contraption with a few blankets on top.

  Wait, is this a church? I thought you said I’d be sleeping

  in the school.

  This building is, indeed, the church, Blade. And the

  community center. And the library. And the school. It’s not

  complete, but we are working on it.

  I see. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, but I’m happy

  to pay for a bed, in a house or something.

  All the extra space we have is occupied by children who

  have lost their parents.

  Lost their parents?

  Yes, many have left to find work, or have fallen sick.

  Millions here are affected by malaria. Parents die or are

  too sick to take care of their sick children. We have twenty

  thousand children die each year from it. The mosquitoes

  are treacherous.

  . . . .

  Don’t worry, Blade, we have mosquito nets. Plus, your

  American pills are potent.

  I’m sorry, Joy.

  Don’t be. It is not your fault . . .

  What happens to the orphans?

  Orphans

  The word seems sad

  when you say it.

  An orphan

  is like a soul bulb

  waiting

  to be planted

  in just

  the right place.

  When you’re an orphan,

  you no longer belong,

  but a child is a child

  of everyone,

  they belong

  to a community,

  to a greater garden,

  she says.

  But what if the garden is barren? I think,

  still captivated

  by the way she talks

  by the way she cares

  by the way

  the moon

  paints

  her perfect

  face.

  I see you are staring again.

  Portrait of a Woman

  I am no Michelangelo

  I prefer music

  to mezza fresco

  this old tree

  is my canvas

  and I marvel

  at your body

  and soul

  the masterpiece

  that is your

  pristine walk

  the heavenly way

  it colors

  the world

  from earth

  to sky.

  I want to write

  your song,

  is what I want to say, but

  what comes out is:

  Can I get that mosquito net, please?

  Conversation

  You should rest, my friend. The roosters will be here soon.

  And with them come eager children who want to meet the

  American boy.

  I doubt if I will sleep with the big rats looming.

  Oh, they are more afraid of you than you are of them.

  You sure about that?

  Positively. What you must keep your eye out for are the

  mountain lions, she says, laughing so loud even the

  crickets stop to listen.

  Her smile

  makes me forget

  that I am

  seven thousand miles

  away from

  the spider
>
  that bit

  and poisoned me.

  I dig through my suitcase

  for my malaria pills

  beneath the iPad

  with 4245 pictures of Chapel

  I can no longer look at,

  guitar picks I no longer have use for,

  wallet with too much money

  yet never enough

  to help me make sense of this life,

  Charlotte’s Web,

  which makes me think too much

  of the spider in my dreams,

  the clothes and pillow

  that smell like home,

  until I reach

  Mom’s sealed letter

  that taunts me

  that scares me

  that I hold

  while I drift off

  to the unfamiliar hum

  and frantic patter

  of a Ghanaian night.

  Text Conversation with Storm

  4:45 am

  I think I only slept

  for four hours.

  Jet-lagged like crazy.

  4:45 am

  Plus the roosters started

  crowing like thirty minutes ago.

  You finish the song?

  4:45 am

  Stop blowing up my

  phone, Blade. I’m busy.

  Studying ciphers.

  4:45 am

  Ciphers? What are you,

  a rapper now?

  4:46 am

  Kabbalah. Don’t hate.

  Madonna does it too,

  I think.

  4:46 am

  Whatever works. Express

  Yourself! LOL!

  4:47 am

  Storm, you still there?

  I slept in a makeshift

  school last night.

  4:47 am

  It’s really just dirt

  and concrete. Next stop,

  hotel.

  4:47 am

  BLADE, what part of stop

  bothering me did

  you not get!!!

  4:47 am

  The whole place is a

  work-in-progress, actually.

  4:47 am

  Boy, bye.

  zZZZZZ

  An hour later, when the

  roosters take a break, I fall

  back asleep and dream

  of nothing.

  This Morning

  Last night,

  after missing

  the gentle strum

  of my guitar

  that always helps

  me find

  my slumber

  and finally

  passing out

  from the boiling heat,

  and then

  waking up

  at three am

  and thinking

  of all the things

  I’m going to say

  to my mother