in the almost broken black car
we are turning from Zaire street
onto Lilongwe avenue.
dad complains about the car
and the weather, and the doctors,
i am too excited to say anything
inside my soul is singing, for no reason,
except i am happy to be here
yes, i see that paint is peeling
off of buildings we pass like
teardrops slowly falling from the sky
but next to this slow death,
there are pink flowers peeking
out from the cracks in the walls
and because of that small beauty
i am happy to be here
and yes, sometimes the sun
scorches my skin so i look more
burned marshmallow than delicious
chocolate, but here the boys don’t
see me as beautiful like an exotic
flower, but beautiful like their own
resilient mothers, and that comparison
makes me happy to be here
and yes, i don’t like how some want
to see me but not hear me throw
my voice over the rooftops, and yes
i don’t like potholes and dumsor because
it’s scary getting lost in dark holes, and
yes i don’t like the fact that when adults
greet us we reply like a scripted Greek
chorus i am fine
i want to say that i am eons away from fine
because i am so happy to be here
and it may sound cliché or like forced poetry
but when i think of my mother’s ancestors
hauled across the dark blue sea, i think
that a few hours of silence just to pacify
the spirits of the elders are worth a life
out of chains, where i can walk where i please
history makes me happy just to be
Alixa Brobbey is a young writer living in Accra, Ghana. She grew up in the Netherlands and often uses the experience of calling two different continents home as an inspiration for her work, which has been published in Canvas, The Battering Ram, and others. Aside from reading and writing, her hobbies include running, acting, trying to retain her fluency in Dutch, listening to Shawn Mendes’ albums on repeat, and fangirling over Harry Potter. You can read more of her work here: http://lilaccheetah.wixsite.com/alixawrites