The Milk of Birds
“I lose my hold on Big Zeinab’s voice and hear nothing but the wails of mourning in Umm Jamila.
• • • After a time my mother came to Kareema’s hut with her needle. She washed me with water and stitched. I wept, but she did not say anything. She passed the needle through the fire and offered it to Kareema, who shook her head.
“Stay with Kareema,” my mother said.
Through the walls we listened to the comings and goings. Through the walls I heard my father return with my aunt and learned of my c...ousins who had died. Kareema and I lay down, but we slept little. I did not think of Kareema’s humiliation, the first wife, childless, and now dishonored. I thought only of my own, burning inside and out.
Early in the morning, we stepped out to relieve ourselves. When we returned, we found a bowl of mulah beside the door of Kareema’s hut.
Through the walls we heard my aunt scream when my uncle died. On this day, the village was strangely quiet, pierced only by cries of grief.MoreLess
• • • After a time my mother came to Kareema’s hut with her needle. She washed me with water and stitched. I wept, but she did not say anything. She passed the needle through the fire and offered it to Kareema, who shook her head.
“Stay with Kareema,” my mother said.
Through the walls we listened to the comings and goings. Through the walls I heard my father return with my aunt and learned of my c...ousins who had died. Kareema and I lay down, but we slept little. I did not think of Kareema’s humiliation, the first wife, childless, and now dishonored. I thought only of my own, burning inside and out.
Early in the morning, we stepped out to relieve ourselves. When we returned, we found a bowl of mulah beside the door of Kareema’s hut.
Through the walls we heard my aunt scream when my uncle died. On this day, the village was strangely quiet, pierced only by cries of grief.MoreLess
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