Solo

by Kwame Alexander

  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