Mama.
The little girl slept bent over, with her top half on the bench
and her bottom half still standing on the cement ground.
I lifted her, letting her legs wrap around my waist,
her arms around my neck, her head resting on my chest.
She was deep with sleep, breathing deeply in and out,
her lips moving silently with dreams, and beads of sweat shining on her forehead.
Later, when she finally awoke, she clung tighter to me
and said quietly, “Uppie.”
So I stood and walked with her as she pointed towards
trees and chickens and whispered in my ear, “Come, come.”
We saw the newest boy, a toddler, crying in the dirt.
We went to him and asked him, “eh, what is it?”
He pointed one finger at the fence which separated us from the
rest of Kampala
and said just one word –
“Mama.”
and her bottom half still standing on the cement ground.
I lifted her, letting her legs wrap around my waist,
her arms around my neck, her head resting on my chest.
She was deep with sleep, breathing deeply in and out,
her lips moving silently with dreams, and beads of sweat shining on her forehead.
Later, when she finally awoke, she clung tighter to me
and said quietly, “Uppie.”
So I stood and walked with her as she pointed towards
trees and chickens and whispered in my ear, “Come, come.”
We saw the newest boy, a toddler, crying in the dirt.
We went to him and asked him, “eh, what is it?”
He pointed one finger at the fence which separated us from the
rest of Kampala
and said just one word –
“Mama.”
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