September 2015
I grew up in northern Nigeria speaking Hausa (and among friends there, am often still called by my Hausa name, Halima Ayuba). I first had a poem appear here at Verse-Virtual in January of this year; in my bio note at that time, I mentioned I was working on a series of poems related to childhood in Nigeria. This poem is part of that sequence and will be included in the forthcoming collection Dance Here.
Remembering the Cashew Wars
As children, during rainy season,
after the monsoons had blessed
the tree, we would climb up
and eat the fruit of the cashew —
bitter-bitter, like an unripe pepper
with a hint of honey — but it
was wet, and quenched the chapping
of our lips. Before we ate, we
pulled the fat scimitar seeds from
off the ends, clutched them in
sweaty palms. When we were
through, cheeks and chins coated
in sticky juice attracting flies, we’d
balance against our respective
branches and the battle would begin:
we’d use the saved seeds as
ammunition, throw them at each
other, dodge and claim the other’s
shot a miss, laugh and taunt, never
admit when we were hit. When all
collected seeds were spent, all our
ammunition used, we would descend.
Back then, knowledge did not mar
our bliss: we never knew those seeds
we threw so gleefully were food.
-first appeared in Returning to Awe (Balkan Press 2014)
©2015 Laura M Kaminski