right before

the thing he knows

we cannot wait

to hear.

Though he is nearly eighty now

and seldom speaks,

when he does,

I hang on to all his words,

the lulls in between,

and I remember

the stories

like a pigeon remembers

its way home.

IN THE DREAM

I sprint across

the clearing,

past a leopard

teaching her cubs

how to count to ten.

After I grade them,

I dart between the maze

of forest trees

and discover a pot

of boiling plantains

by the river.

Picture me running

over rocks and grass

swept up in the cool breeze

rushing to the water

diving off the back

of a—

SCHOOLED

Offin, how old was

beloved Queen Victoria

when she became heir

to the throne? Mr. Goodluck Phillip, our teacher, asks,

startling me

out of my dream.

My cousin,

who thinks he is better

than me at everything,

giggles, then shoots

his hand up fast,

but Mr. Phillip is talking

to me, staring

at me, daring

me

to answer incorrectly.

I will like Kofi Offin

to answer the question, please, he says.

Dunwõtwe, I proudly answer,

standing among

my classmates, smiling

like I just bit into

the sweetest mango.

I do not see

the lightning

almost slice

the skin

from my palm,

but I do feel the scorch

of the rod

across my hand

and in my bones.

I even taste its sting

in my mouth.

Queen’s English, please, Mr. Phillip says,

as calm as rain, like

he did not just attack me

with his jagged cane.

Eighteen, I say quickly.

That is correct. The Queen was eighteen, he adds, looking at the whole class,

when her uncle died

of pneumonia,

making her the rightful heir.

I am not teaching you

to count in English for nothing.

Sorry, Mr. Goodluck Phillip, I say,

looking down at the purplish welt

burning my sable skin,

and trying not to cry

in front of everyone,

especially Ama,

and my cousin,

who now looks like

he is happily eating

my mango.

OUR TEACHER

Kwaku Ansah

was sent

many, many seasons ago

to Akra

to attend

The Queen’s Missionary School

at Osu for the Propagation

of Better Education

and Improved Language,

and when he returned

he had “improved” his name to

Goodluck Kwaku Phillip,

and insisted

to the Council of Elders

that we needed

to be propagated

as well.

ON A MISSION

Mr. Phillip seldom smiles,

is lanky and tall,

wears wire-rimmed glasses

and big-collared shirts

with strange bows

around his neck,

frowns when he speaks our Twi,

insists that we call him

by his new names,

does not like

riddles or bean stew

or most things

we are used to

in our village,

and swears

that he has been anointed

to rescue us

from our old selves

and help us discover

our true ones.

MY OLDER BROTHER

Kwasi once told me

that Mr. Phillip informed

his class that

English is regularly spoken

in Akra and on the Coast,