Nanny Wept

Nanny Wept
by Andrene Bonner

Next morning, I woke up to the crowing of a noisy akokכ. Some Bantu sounding women were fanning red peas they were laying out to dry on the porch around the water tank. The purple mountains looked so at peace with the sky but I ached from the long journey. I ached from the pain in my belly. I ached from not knowing what my life would be like in this land. I ached because I did not smell Ma Esi making morning kכ fe with fish and fresh baked bread, and calling out to me – 'Come my Nana—kכ fe is ready.’ I ached because I did not hear my papa whisling for me to come with him to shoot birds for lunch time soup. I ached because my brothers were not loading the donkey with כde and akye-fufu and laughing loud about pretty girls they hope to meet at the market. I ached because my junior cousins were not screaming and playing. I ached because I could not enjoy the clouds that spun circles around the belly of the sun or the fresh air that felt like a Kumasi morning in the spring. I ached. I ached. I ached. I cried.