old dust made new
Posted by Daniela Elza on Feb 20 2011
Another carnival is on its way with the theme: another place, another language, another self. The deadline for submissions is today, February 20th. So, hurry up and send yours in today.
I have chosen to post here a vignette and a poem from the time I grew up in Nigeria. The vignette is brand new. The poem old dust made new was first published in One Ghana, One Voice. It was written for their Harmattan series. (Here you can also check out the interview that went along with the poem.)
I grew up in Nigeria (between 1975 and 1985ish). I am fascinated with memory in general, but even more so with the way memories come back from those childhood days. Hope you enjoy the pieces.
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First day of school
I do not speak a word of English. Copy everything painstakingly from the blackboard. (My dad will decipher it for me when I get home.) My classroom has dark green metal shutters for windows. On the first day the only thing I can do is draw.
I draw Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Not at work, but at play. One of the dwarfs is swinging from a branch. My new classmates crowd around. They point to the parts of the picture and put their notebooks in front of me. I spend the day drawing in their books.
We play jacks with rocks in the sand. The girls trace the blue veins on my arms. Want to braid my hair. I let them.
~
The first book assigned by my ESL teacher is Mr. Happy. When I have trouble with the word carpet, she brings one to school. Her car is always full of stuff.
In time I learn to run barefoot in the school yard, to love mangoes, to sing a Housa song:
zo zo zo
zo abokina
zo mutafi makaranta
I eat what the other kids eat. (Even though my parents said not to eat anything we did not bring to school).
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old dust made new
the harmattan (d r y and  c o l d)   came in
couplets—   fine  unrimed    red dust
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no matter how tightweshutthewindows
you cannot              keep it          out
b l u  r  r   e   d the trees        the houses
the past—      its long fluorescent lights
thin apparition—    the desert came in
sifted down through          mosquito netsÂ
) t.here is no without   ) no within     the Sahara
breathing   as if it w e r e  memory    (s l o  wÂ
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and d i f f i c u l t)Â arriving on the north east winds
sinking even through the fabric of my dreams
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old dust made new        on our living surf a c e s
in the morning the black table top    turned  canvas
where my dad left us       secret m e s s a g e s
where     my sister and I awoke to the wor(l)d
drew     and rhymed with child fingertips
before my mom shined it clean for breakfast
March 7th, 2011 at 2:49 am
So happy to have found your blog in the Language Carnival, Daniela! Memory is something that I too am fascinated with exploring through words. Congratulations on handing in your dissertation!
March 8th, 2011 at 12:26 pm
Thanks Rouchswalwe. I am enjoying these virtual carnival days too. Discovering new web voices.
It seems like if you want to keep a memory pure, you should not remember it.:-)
The act of remembering already changes the memory. We remember from the point of view of who we have become.Which is both unsettling and celebratory.