And Nimdee looked at the sky,

then lay down

like he wanted a nap,

with eyes closed

and mouth shut.

No matter how many times

the father begged him

to answer,

he would not speak.

Please, Nimdee, tell them what they ask, said the mother.

Oh dear, wise, old Nimdee, answer them, the father pleaded.

The son, who had always thought

this whole paying and bargaining

for his bride thing

to be wrong,

but who had loved Ama

since before he could remember,

dropped to his knees,

pleading with Nimdee,

offering to free him

if he would just comply.

Finally, the bride-to-be’s family,

appalled by this show of disrespect,

rejected the goat

and the marriage,

and set on their way.

Now, when they were gone,

Nimdee rose up,

drank from a pot of water

brought to satisfy his thirst

and looked

as if nothing had happened,

as if the boy’s world

had not just been turned

upside down.

Why? asked the mother.

Why do you forsake us and not speak? asked the father.

Why do you make me suffer like this, Nimdee? the heartbroken son asked.

Nimdee chuckled

a little,

in a wise sort of way,

then said

to the boy

and his mother

and his father,

What you do not suffer for, you can never truly value.

OWU BURIES

his head soundly

in Afua’s lap

and sleeps.

Do you know Oware, Kofi?

She opens her hand,

drops a bunch

of black and white pebbles

onto the ground

next to me,

right into the sliver of light

coming from above.

You are a good storyteller, Kofi.

Medase! My grandfather told me that one. He tells me many.

He has trusted you to keep the stories, ei. That is a big thing… Tell me about your people.

…

MY PEOPLE

My best friend Ebo

has a big mouth

that often gets me into big trouble.

He believes that berries

can make us taller,

but he means well

and is a good person.

Ama’s beauty

is matched only

by her wisdom.

She has lived

through much misfortune,

but still she smiles

brighter than a thousand suns

and stands taller

than most boys,

especially my cousin,

who never means well.

But I was to show him up

in the river, before…

before this…

You see, I can swim

like a fish.

The sound of the river

flows through my body,

but what we listen to each day here,

this is the biggest water

I have ever heard.

WHILE OTHERS COMFORT THEMSELVES

with songs

of solace,

Afua and I play the game

as best we can

long into the night

and I tell her

about Nana Mosi

and Maame

and Kwasi

and Hamlet

and Mr. Phillip’s rolling Rs—which makes

her chuckle again—and when

I have emptied

all my stories

and she has run

out of questions

I ask mine.

QUESTIONS

Nana Mosi told me

of a mighty sea.

Is this it, Auntie?

Will it take us home?