Old Anwar explains:
“Our direction depends on the safest path,
where harmless land leads us.
We can only know the way as it reveals itself.
Our journey’s end will be shown as we go.”
We walk on dogged feet
for nights
and nights
and nights.
We can go only when it’s dark.
When we can’t be seen.
When there is no Janjaweed.
It’s not safe during the day.
Miles and miles in nighttime.
My soles are melting.
I’m so thirsty.
We must ration the little bit of water we have.
I try not to whine,
but I do.
Muma says,
“Don’t think of water.
It will make you crave it more.”
My dwarfed sister
starts out riding and resting
on Muma’s back.
If only I were small enough to ride
on my mother’s hunched body.
I could press my chest right to her.
I could send my heart’s drumming to Muma’s heart,
sliced with sorrow.
Gamal keeps touching
at the place
on his neck
that has crusted pus
collecting at its edges.
He’s also trying hard not to whine.