She could be by any other name
and still wear the face
that was given to her at birth
except she would live in retro caves
straddling the length of the Nile,
and in a canoe that flicked colours
with the moods of the sky
she would sail North
she would venture South
she would idle to rest
for no sake but rest’s sake
to gaze into the knowing eyes
of translucent fish
flipping in and out
of their sparkled water.
she would read the scrolls
of our old ways
to remember the rites
of bequeathing last grain
to hungering mouths
of how we fed
each, to each
with fingers together
like the mashed morsel
was for the mouth of a child
in Congo
in Sudan
in Palestine
the earth is bleeding
at her mother core.
she would wear a giant thimble
and by starlight, sew off-kilter
quilts, so bombs would laugh
instead of exploding
she would stitch them real thick
to hug bullets close
so they would not seek warmth
in human flesh and heart.
Then she would start
again, paddling beloved Iteru
calling out her ancient spirit,
calling for Aman Dawu,
calling for Kiyira, Kihiira
intoning each name
like a prayer to our ancestor’s
ear, to rise with her oar
to flow over the wound-lines
penned to rend our land apart,
to swallow our languages
to gobble up our selves,
to dim the beacons within us
that meant that what was ashore,
was a person who would swim
against glutton tides
to save another
from drowning.
About the author:
Lillian Akampurira Aujo is a writer from Uganda. She is the recipient of the Jalada Prize for Literature. She was shortlisted for the 2019 Gerald Kraak Award and the 2018 Brittle Paper Anniversary Award, and longlisted for the 2018 Nommo Award. Her writing has appeared/ is forthcoming in Adda, HarperVia, New Internationalist, Prairie Schooner, Transition Magazine, Jalada Africa, and Jacana Literary Foundation, among others. She is an MA Creative Writing (Poetry) graduate with distinction from the University of East Anglia, where she was a Global Voices Scholar.
Feature image by Michel Paz on Unsplash
