We are treating the malaria with medication, the nurse
says.
This lethal word
is like an arrow
aimed at chest,
cutting through skin
and bone, piercing
heart
and soul.
The mosquito
is an invisible murderer,
piercing possibility
sucking futures
with its six-sworded
proboscis.
It knows just
where to bite,
which vessels
to attack,
and it shows
no mercy.
It won’t even spare
the children.
What Matters
Rutherford sits
on the edge
of Sia’s bed,
holding her hand.
He’s humming twinkle, twinkle,
trying to soothe her
aches and pains.
I know I could get her the best care back at home. I’m
going to adopt her, Blade. Bring her home with me.
I don’t think it’s that easy, Dad.
I don’t care how much it costs.
I watch him
try to get her
to eat a little,
to drink a little,
to laugh a little,
to live
a little
longer.
Unlikely, but True
Rutherford holds Sia,
tells her stories
like a father to a child.
She looks up at his face.
You can tell
a smile wants
to find its way
out.
Strange,
even in the most unlikely
of faces you can find
love.
Sia is sitting up
taking broth,
baby-sized spoonfuls.
She tugs
on Rutherford’s hair;
he leans
into her
and whispers
something
I can’t hear.
She grabs my hand,
her little fingers
pull mine
like they’re triggers
shooting love,
and with scratchy throat
says, Uncle, Game!
So we play I Spy.
I spy something brown and round, I begin.
She points to my eyes.
Then Rutherford’s.
Then hers,
as if we’ve all
come from
the same line
of tired,
worried browns.
She smiles at us
and musters
a beautiful wink.
Our Sia is coming back.
And that warms
my doubtful gut.
In a voice
that carries
love, care,
protection
and all the things
a father should bring
to the world,
Rutherford says
You guys don’t need to stay. I’ll be here with her. I’ll keep
her smiling. Go on, take the bus, back to the village. Get
some rest.
What about you?
Ah, you know rock stars don’t sleep anyway. Plus, I got
Birdie and Stevie here to talk trash with while we wait this
out. Don’t you two worry. She’s gonna be fine. I promise
you that.
Take Travis too, Uncle Stevie hollers. Poor chap hasn’t
been the same since the climb.
He hugs me,
and, for once,
it feels right
and good
to hug him back.
Oh, one more thing, he adds. That favor you wanted, it’s
been delivered.
No way, how’d you do that?
I’m a rock star, I can do whatever I want.
Where’d they put it?
The school.
So cool, Dad. Thanks.
No, thank you, son.
For what?
For giving me a reason to be better. For you.
I’ll see you when you get back.
It’ll be soon. Gotta make sure the dormitory gets started
before I bail. I love you, Blade.
C’mon, don’t get all mushy. Let the kid go, Rutherford,
Uncle Stevie shouts.
Joy and I leave
the hospital
relieved
that Rutherford
is keeping
the night watch
over Sia.
Tuesday, 2:30 am
When we get back
to the village,
there are no drums
no dancing children
no soccer balls
no Fela
no men cutting
no women washing
and laughing
at the day’s
happenings,
just me
and a river
of Joy
bathing
beneath
the African night.
Let us sit, she says,
so we do,
under the coconut tree.
She holds my hands.
You have finally met your mother. How do you feel?
Full. Happy for once.
That makes me happy, my friend.
Is that what we are, friends?
That is the best we can be. It is the beginning of all things
that really matter.
How do you do that?
Do what?
Make everything sound so dayum good.
I have a request.
Anything.
The song you sang for Auntie Lucy was a treasure. Did
you write that?
I wish. It’s a famous American rock song.
Maybe one day, you will write a song—
For you?
For all of us, for Konko, she says, letting my hand go.
Why do you hold my hand?
Do not read anything into it, Blade Morrison. It simply
makes me feel good. Like a—
Natural woman?
Now, that is the kind of song you can write for me.
Maybe one day, I will.
Track 14: (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman
ROCKER: ARETHA FRANKLIN / ALBUM: LADY SOUL / LABEL: ATLANTIC RECORDS / RECORDING DATE: FEBRUARY–DECEMBER 1967 / STUDIOS: ATLANTIC STUDIOS IN NEW YORK CITY
Some people say
it’s spiritual,
the relationship
between
a woman
and her God.
Some people say
it’s about
how real love
makes you
feel
after you’ve been
rescued
from yourself
despite yourself.
When the right person
comes along
after a long, hard rain.
Funny thing is,
her producer, Jerry Wexler,
was driving down
the street
one day
contemplating
a song idea
about the natural man
when he passed by
the amazing songwriter,
Carole King.
Word is,
he shouted
I need a
“natural woman”
song
for Aretha Franklin,
and the rest
is platinum
history.
Sometimes
Fate
Is
Just
That
Simple.
Sleepy Serenade
She dozes off
>
right there.
So I carry her
onto the bus,
place her
in one of the bunks,
shoot a quick text to Storm
to let her know
we’re both okay,
and then take
the last step
of my journey
before the roosters
and the morning taxis
bring in
the new day.
I read the letter.
Dear Blade
As I sit and write this, I look over at your blue-black eyes
and copper smile. You are the happiest seven-year-old I’ve
ever seen. You’re reading comics and practicing guitar
with your dad. And, I’m sad. I’m sad, because if you’re
reading this, it means I’m gone.
I know you’ll wonder why we never told you your story
before now. Blade, sometimes it’s difficult to explain
family and secrets and why you want to keep some things
sacred and sealed until the right time. Perhaps there will
never be a right time, or maybe right now it is just when
you’ll need to read this.
I love you, son. Your father loves you. I don’t know how
we got so lucky to find you, or maybe you found us. What
I do know is that we were meant to be a family. We may
have adopted you when you were just born, but you came
to me in a dream, almost a year earlier. I remember your
face. I remember your big, curly hair. I remember every
second of our journey together.
Lucy November was just a girl. I used to babysit her.
She never wanted to watch TV or play games, she was
always reading National Geographic, talking about how
she wanted to see the world. Save the world. I bet, if
you go looking for her, and you find her, Blade, she’s off
somewhere changing the world.
You must know she didn’t want to give you up. She had
some bad things happen to her, and it scarred her. And it
scared her parents. I think they thought they were doing
the best thing for her by giving you a fresh start. I never
worried that she’d survive though. Lucy was smart and
funny, and even after everything that happened, she
never lost her laugh.
When you meet her, and I’m sure you will one day, you
will see it written all over her face. You will hear it in her
Louisiana twang. When you do go looking, I want you to
have your guitar with you. Play something special for her,
Blade. I promised her you’d be okay. Show her that you
are.
Forgive us, beautiful boy made of strings and frets,
soundboard and a bridge, and turning pegs and chords.
You are made of pure music and soul and love. And, you
will always be a Morrison.
Rock and Roll, Baby,
Mom
Conversation
You’ve been up all night?
How can you tell?
Your eyes are blood red.
Something like that.
Your American pillows are too soft, she says, stretching her
neck. What time is it?
About ten.
Oh my, I need to go.
First, can I show you something?
Is it coffee?
It’s a surprise.
Well, it will have to wait. I cannot be late for school. I
already missed three days.
It is at the school, so you will not be late.
Very well. Let me freshen myself up. Please leave the bus
first. It will not look good if we walk off together.
I was a gentleman. Nothing happened.
People’s minds prefer the worst.
True. I’ll see you at the school. Towels are in the drawer
beneath the bed.
Oooh! A shower. Nice!
Surprise
Pretty much
the entire village
is gathered
at the school,
marveling
at the glistening
white machine
at the front
of the room.
When Joy
walks through
the door,
I shush
everyone
and present
her with
A washing machine? Blade, Blade, BLADE! This is a
washing machine. Why would you do this?
Why would I not?
The entire village
applauds
and Joy
buries her head
in my chest,
her eyes
warm and
full of gratitude.
This is what friends do, I say. My father will get the
plumbing for it, but it should last for a while.
She kisses me,
and my whole world is her
right now.
The celebration
continues
outside
with each
of the women
in the village
hugging me
and thanking
my family
for our kindness.
After I hug
number nineteen,
I find Joy
and ask her
if she will
go to Accra
with me
for a proper date.
You think because you buy a girl a washing machine that
she will have a date with you?
I bought this for the village, not just for you, my friend, I
say almost sarcastically.
Hmmm. You make a good point, Blade.
. . . .
Are you happy?
. . . .
Blade.
. . . .
Blade, where are you going?
My father. My father’s back.
Walking up the hill
is Rutherford
with shoulders slumped
and head hung low,
Uncle Stevie
toting the guitar
over his shoulder,
and Birdie trailing
not too far behind.
As Rutherford gets closer
I know.
It’s all over
his face
just like before
when I was ten.
My heart dives
into to my stomach,
stops for a second
then starts swimming
so hard, so fast.
I run to him.
I don’t want him
to say it.
I want him
to swallow
the news,
take us back
to yesterday
when it didn’t exist,
before there was
this drowning.
The worst weapon
unleashed
on a person
are the words,
those unforgiving
words, heavy
with loss.
She’s gone, he cries.
WHY?
We’ll never know.
No one can ever
explain a tragedy.
We can only
write about it.
Sing about it.
Dance with it.
Move through it.
He throws
fists to the clouds.
Swearing away
any good
he ever intended.
Yelling
at anybody
everybody.
Then he grabs
his guitar
and starts<
br />
playing,
walking through
the street
like he’s shredding
the place
between
heaven
and earth.
Like he’s speed-riffing
a conversation
with God.
His strings
are wild horses
running
with emotions,
through time
and space.
The villagers
follow him
in awe,
join in his
testimony,
hear
his guitar
scream:
WHY WHY WHY.
The drummers appear.
The children chant.
The shekeres shake.
The people march.
The music BOOMS!
The Procession
We march,
collect more
and more
mourning passengers
as we walk
through Konko
following him,
a human train
keeping momentum
in beautiful sorrow.
We sing words
I don’t understand,
but can feel
and know.
We cry with colors
that spill from our eyes,
and walk around trees,
and can’t stop singing.
We won’t stop singing.
The music lives.
Rutherford stops
near the well
where I first
met Joy.
He turns to face
the crowd
like he wants
to say something.
A eulogy, perhaps.
But this is not a funeral.
A few weeks ago, a young man came to your village
searching for his soul, and you welcomed him.
The drummers pound.
He fell into your arms, and you held him, and I thank you,
Konko, he continues.
The crowd cheers, Blade, Blade, Blade!
Then they part,
like a sea opening,
this time for me
to come
swimming through.
I shake my head,
but they won’t take
no for an answer.
Their chants grow louder.
Joy pushes me
forward.
Today, we honor Konko. We honor a thousand seasons of
your heart, Rutherford preaches, like he’s been saved.
The dancers dance
in a circle of drumming
‘til they all halt
in a single BOOM!
Most of all, we honor our precious little Sia, he says,
handing me the guitar. You know what to do.
And, this time, I do.
Ladies and gentlemen, my son, Blade Morrison.
Solo
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