A crowd forms around them

as rain begins to dribble

from the grim sky.

They do not eat as well as we do,

and they never will, silly girl, he continues,

getting a few laughs. And I do listen

to the lessons.

Upper won the war.

Lower lost.

They are not us… THEY. ARE. YOU!

Our servants.

SHE IS RIGHT, THEY ARE US, I shout, before I realize what I have done. Ama smiles at me. My cousin scowls at me.

Do not butt in, little cousin, unless you want some of this wahala, he says, balling his fists.

I do not want any of this trouble, I think, as a classmate, thankfully, distracts him.

I have heard they are building a big wall. A fortress, in case there is another war, says the mate.

Do not be stupid. They are not that smart. But if they do come for us, my father has the big gun, remember, says my cousin, aiming his finger at me and Ama. Plus, we have all the gold, and he who owns the gold eats first, and eats best. That is the only lesson that matters.

Without hesitation, Ama shakes her head

like she feels sorry for him,

then fires back

with a might

that could lift a log.

The mind of a fool is like a broken pot. It holds nothing.

Everyone laughs

at her mocking

of him, loudly,

including me,

which pricks him so much

he comes over

and punches me

in the belly

so hard, my whole body collapses,

and I spew

my lunch.

Who is the fool now?

AMA JUMPS

in my cousin’s face

and calls him

the meanest thing

she can think of—ABOA!—which

really is not that bad,

because my cousin

probably believes

he actually is

an animal,

king of his own jungle,

always roaring

and wreaking havoc

on me.

He lifts her

off the ground

as she screams,

trying to break free, then

he

kisses

her.

He. Kisses. Ama.

You know you like that, little house girl, he says,

dropping her.

MY COUSIN

does not walk around,

he marches, thinks

he is a soldier,

is stronger

and taller than me

by two coconuts,

which I have seen him

nearly split open

with his hard head,

then offer to

whichever girl

he is fond of

at the time.

He outran me

last spring

from the village

to the river’s edge,

and is so big and tough

he is allowed

to chop timber

with the big men.

But none of that matters

right now, because

Ama has been disrespected,

her honor plunged

into the damp red clay,

and I think I understand

what Shakespeare meant

when he said,

Love never did run smooth.

Forget peace.

This means war.

THE BATTLE

I run into him

headfirst

with the force

of a million thunderstorms

and knock him down.

I do not need Kwasi

to train me, I think.

I am an able hawk

hunting my prey.

The thud