I’m ready to ask my mother
one of many vexing questions.
Muma is sweeping the dirt floor
of our rice-sack house.
So much sweeping,
always sweeping,
brushing dust
into puff-puffs
that billow
at Muma’s ankles.
My words come as telling,
not as asking.
“I want to leave Kalma.
I want to go to Nyala.”
Muma stoops to pick up
a stubborn pebble that will
not yield to her broom’s stiff bristles.
She flings the tiny menace
to a corner,
sweeping faster,
not once looking up
from the brown dirt clouds
gusting off her hard work.
“Amira, I’m busy,” she says.