Cameroon letter #10 - Ayisha

She takes my arm between her hands,

her time-stained, life-burnt, calloused hands,

and strokes it, like her people do,

repeating words like spell, like song,

stroke-speak, stroke-speak, stroke-speak.

As though she could lay down some kind of varnish,

painting, on my skin

and rub it in, oil truth, balm prophecy, 

anointing wish. She’s transforming me 

and healing with her melody-less song, 

an incantation from another world,

a declaration hope, a blessing from some ancient time.

Some people read palms, tea leaves, stars,

see in them things that will yet be, divine, unknowns

that lie ahead. Not this one, not

her tribe – they take your arms instead

and write on them their love for you,

adsorbing their acceptance like an oil

caressed into your skin. 

She takes my arm between her hands,

just like her people flung like constellations

all across these dying drying lands

that hum no less with throbbing, beating life

that seeps its way into your soul;

just like her wandering ancestors

who herd their cattle each by name,

binding them adamantine with trust alone,

each gore-horned towering zebu cow 

a loyal life-long friend;

just like the mothers framed in firelight,

running fingers through soft toddler hair,

releasing tangles, flicking dust, and weaving

promise, future, ownership, identity

all through the then and now into someday;

just like the loping-gaited leaders 

of her tribe who are all man and unashamed

to braid each other's hair 

and greet each other with a hug

hold each other's hands while they walk

slowly through the marketplaces,

even as the less-expressive Hausa smile and jeer. 

She takes my arm between her hands,

just like our heart-tribe scattered all across 

the nations of this lonely, lovely world

where we will write ourselves and fade away;

she takes my arm betweeen her hands

and stroke-speaks into it her gift,

“Tabitha is my friend.”