Saminaka Compass Literary Supplement

New Beginnings—Acuminious Watanabe (prompt: sunshine)

Day makes way for night

Darkness emerges from the light

Flowers of midnight bloom

The petals slumber, fold to cocoon.

Creatures of night rejoice in song

Their voices familiar to those who belong

Exclusive of the spirits of day

The souls of twilight now guide the way.

From the bliss of joy to the depths of sorrow

Without the day, night could not bring tomorrow

The moon and his fiery bride entwined

Give birth to both darkness and sunshine.

"Fifty Bullets….Make My Day”-- Basha Paulino (prompt: “HE is here…yeah!”)

Where oh where

Can my little dog be?

He’s probably out

Flirting with Regine.

Where oh where

Could my little dog go?

He’s probably out

Macking on some brand new hoe.

Where oh where

Can my little dog hide?

He’s probably out

Sleeping with someone else’s bride

Night turns into Morning’s light

Mama’s little precious is homeward bound.

He sneaks through the door

Looking confused and dumb found.

Smiling sweetly he says,

“What can I do to make my baby’s day?”

Smiling as I reach for my gun

He turns dodging and weaving as he runs away.

I yell, “Fifty Bullets in Yo’ Ass will make my day”.

Rat-ta Tat Tat

Where oh where

Can my little bullets be?

As I check myself out

Making sure his focus stays on me.

Smiling thinking to myself, "It's time to get a new dog".

Ding Dong Ding

HE is here…..Yeah!

A Moment With My Father--BestFriend Pixelmaid (prompt: One Enchanted Moment)

When I was a young teen, my grandmother took me with her to New Jersey for the summer. Flying was certainly an option at that time, but it was more expensive and I suspect my grandmother didn’t want to fly. We took the Southern Pacific Railroad from Los Angeles to Newark and changed trains in Chicago. The trip took about two and one half days. It was the most exciting event of my life; it was full-fledged living.

Shortly before my father died at the august age of 85, he made a point of telling me a story about himself as an 11 or 12-year-old boy, also taking a train (or maybe a bus) with his family from one coast of the US to the other. He wanted me to know that during his travels he had met an elderly man somewhere in mid-country at a little diner stop. He and my father got to talking and the old man “allowed as how he had never fried an egg in his whole life.” My father had. He proceeded to describe the entire procedure to the stranger, step-by-step. Anyone who has ever met my father knows that he is nothing if not a precise instructor, regardless of the subject. In telling the story and in listening to it, it never occurred to my father or me that the old gent might have been humoring the young boy. Be that as it may, my father recalled it vividly with boyish pride.

There is a psychological phase the elderly enter called “life review.” My father was reviewing his life, down to its most obscure detail. He seemed to be saying: “You should listen to my stories more often. There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” With the poignant urgency that he didn’t have an infinite number of years left in which to tell them. I wonder if I am already entering that phase? If so, it is not because I am elderly but because I need to tell my stories. I need to hear and them and I want to pass some of them on to other people. Not because they are historically significant, but because they engage the storyteller in a process of dipping into time like skimming a cup through well water. Anything can appear in that water. Anything.

Conflict: Khitten Kurka (prompt: conflict)

What kind of fuckery is this?

You tell him Amy.

That's exactly what I said.

Messing with my head.

Got no time for

your sorry

your sorry

I'm sorries.

Sing it loud Amy.

I'm tired of fighting.

All nighting and sighing.

While I

try to explain

try to explain

why we can't be.

Wail on it Amy.

I said I was through.

Nothing else you can do.

Not sure why you

couldnt hear

couldnt hear

the dial tone.

One mo' gain Amy.

You only want the ass.

And I aint that fast.

You best believe

when I say

when I say

I need you gone.

What kind of fuckery is this?

Ain't no conflicts or fights

None of that shit tonight.

Let me say this

to be clear

to be clear

I win.

On Meeting My Second Ferret—Feretian String (“One Enchanted Moment”)

Mindlessly wandering

already tired and longing

for remembered warmth

others pushing past

in search of baubles.

I came up against

a place to hold

my eyes unblinking,

my hesitant hand

touching a piece of glass,

my breathing

fogging the plate.

In warmth

and soft blankets

laying curled

as a fresh bagel

your tiny pawpads

poking past the fringe.

Those were the sight

that brought you to me.

Confict: Tamsin Barzane (prompt: conflict)

Many wives, much trouble. I grew hearing it--well, SEEING it. My father had the requisite five, my grandfather had three--well, three when he died. About twelve had circulated in and out of his life through marriage and divorce.

It helps when you can get away, as they both did and I do as well. We're a family of traders, from a long line of merchants. Kano is our base, where wives tend the children and sweep the house. But we are used to saddling our mares and moving out, leaving them to their frictions.

My grandfather generally stayed fairly close, traveling mostly to the Nupe territories and Ilorin to buy fine cloths. My father used to go further afield and took me along, so I grew used to voyages that lasted for moons. The lands of the Ashanti, with their gold, the Mossi and Senufo, on even to Jenne and Timbuktu, full of trade and scholars--all were part of my childhood.

I pushed on further yet, and traded as far as Mauretania, bringing them our fine leathers and taking their gold and goods. One day I was in Nouakchoutt, bargaining with a canny old man, his turban slipping with his verbal exertions. He called out, and in slipped a dark maid, a tray in hand.

She was a fine girl, her curves showing beneath her cloths, eyes darkened with tozali and hands patterned with henna. Our women use the henna too, though they call it lali, but only to stain their soles and palms, with a jaunty circle on the ankle.

Her movements were graceful as she arranged the Moroccan glasses trimmed in gilt, a battered silver pot breathing the fragrant steam of mint. She dropped four lumps of sugar in her master's glass, and looked to me. I signalled three, and her eyes lingered on me a moment before dropping.

When she slipped into my room and my bed that night, I was delighted with her haunches and generous ways. And when she begged me to take her back with me as wife, I thought she would do well, and bear me fine sons. The sheikh was content to let her leave, well-established, and I proudly bore her back to Kano.

That the two senior wives were not happy was no surprise, but I stilled their cutting eyes with gifts of Tunisian silks and filigreed ear dangles--at least for a time. Their new mate spoke but little Hausa, so they were free to spread their spite throughout the household, using sweet tones to lull any thought of complaint. She disn't cook foods they thought well of, she didn't wear her wrappers tight and her veils loose. She did her chores, then sought shade and read. And month after month, she did not take in, despite my best efforts.

But she continued to please me with her sweet ways, her private laughter, and reminders of my travels. I gifted her with cloths and comforts, and she asked for nothing. And her mates? They continued to torture her as best they could, knowing the limit that might rouse my wrath.

**********

Ours was a modest house, earthen and two-storied, with a flat roof for drying pepper and melon seeds, and a courtyard for taking the air and cooking. I had the walls resurfaced yearly, so it always looked smart. The workers had just finished their plastering, and I stood admiring the effect. Miriamu appeared, her brow determined. She talked to me. I resisted at first, but truly saw no harm in her plan; it would add to the splendor of the home and remind my visitors of the breadth of my travels, the exotic worth of my goods.

So I gave her permission, and she set to work. Just a few flourishes around the door's outside, but the reception room walls became a splendid slate of curls and tags, nearly writing but not quite, an exhuberance that echoed that of the homes her sisters decorate in her far-off land. I smiled to see it, and nodded, and her smile split the universe.

That very night she took in, and there has been no peace since, and will not be until I travel again.