Solo by Kwame Alexander
matching skirts
and tops.
She is short—not
much bigger
than the tweens
beside her—sporting
jeans
and sunglasses
that hide
her from me.
She drops
her glasses
and their hands
and runs
past small dwellings
past shadows
of inquisitive eyes
painted by African sun
toward
me.
She runs
down the red clay road
as if parting
the sea
to see me
to save me.
For a moment
there is no one else
but us.
Her eyes say
she knows instantly.
My whole heart pounds.
I try to force
my stiff legs
to move.
To take those
monumental steps
and walk to her.
But my feet
are fixed in concrete,
while my body shakes
like a tree
in the gale.
Can this be? she asks to no one
and everyone.
Lucy, Rutherford says, with a wide, honest grin, and
measured voice. November.
She looks,
remembers him,
shakes her head,
smiles, starts laughing,
and right before
running to me,
screams:
I DECLARE!
Belonging
Her embrace
is wrapped
in wild orange
with a strength
that defies
her tiny stature.
The release
of her warm tears
melts my fear.
I am locked in time,
finally hugging
the mother
I never knew
existed,
the first woman
to hold me,
to see my face,
to feel the music
strumming
in my blood.
This is where
I’ve needed
and wanted to be,
yet, it is a strange
and confusing place
to be told you now belong to,
like someone saying
you are from Jupiter
here’s your space suit,
now take off.
Fade to Black
I hear her
say something,
but have trouble
making out
the words,
because my brain
is speeding again
running fast
running past
sunsets and
spiders
and if I could just
catch up
to my thoughts,
wrestle them
to the ground,
tame them inside
the cage
of my head,
I could breathe.
I could breathe.
Again.
Hi, is all I can manage to get out.
There is buzzing
in my ears,
numbing
in my face,
and everything slows way down,
like a show
ending
like curtains
closing
and the lights
fade
out . . .
Don’t Be Afraid
On the ground,
looking up,
I see them all
staring down at me
through streams
of light.
He’s not dead. Woohoo! Uncle Stevie hollers.
Someone covers my forehead
with cool hands.
Bring him inside, someone says.
He’s made of rough . . . his old . . . right, Blade? someone
else says.
Be strong, Blade. You have come this far. Don’t be afraid of
the answers, another
whispers in my ear.
I'm not scared, I say,
but the words
have no volume,
and then the curtain closes
again.
Conversation
You’ve come a long way just to sleep, Blade Morrison.
Where am I?
A long way from the Hotel California.
. . . .
It’s nice to meet you?
You’re—
Lucy November? Yes.
You’re young.
Well, aren’t you charming. Sunny did a good job with you.
I declare!
. . . .
You probably have ninety-nine questions.
Yeah.
Let me get you some tea, and then we’ll dive in.
I think I’m hungry too.
I bet you are after sleeping for a day and a half.
What? I slept that long?
You did. You woke up once when your Joy came in. She’s a
nice girl.
. . . .
She held your hand and sang to you.
Really?
And then you had a nightmare.
Sorry about that.
No worries, but you’ll have to tell me about this spider
trying to kill you.
. . . .
Sweet bread. Fruit. Hot Tea.
I smell
the peppermint tea
before she brings it in.
She sits by my side,
feeds me a spoon
at a time.
The pineapple
and watermelon
are almost as sweet
as her scent.
She runs her fingers
through my hair, then
announces the plan:
We ask each other questions, until there are no more
questions to ask.
How will that help?
A Bird Doesn’t Sing Because It Has an Answer, It Sings
Because It Has a Song.
Huh?
. . . .
Questions
How does it feel to be eighteen?
How’d you know?
I was there, remember?
. . . .
How was graduation?
What do you know about Rutherford Morrison?
Oh no, did something happen?
Can we not spend our time talking about that?
How else will I get to know you, get to know all of you?
You ever seen Star Wars?
Who hasn’t?
Can you believe he never took me to a movie? What does
that tell you?
I’m pretty sure your father loves you, despite his flaws,
right?
I’m pretty sure Darth Vader loved Luke also, right?
If he’s so bad, how did you end up so fine?
Why does loving someone have to be so hard?
I’m impressed—have you played this game before?
Have you considered that it’s not a game to me?
Blade, do you hate me?
Do you really want to know?
Do you know I love you?
Then, why you’d you give me away?
You think I had a choice?
So, you didn’t?
What do you think it’s like to be fifteen and pregnant?
You were fifteen?
With your whole life ahead of you?
So you chose your life over mine?
Didn’t Sunny and Rutherford give you a life?
Why can’t you answer my question? Why’d you give me
away?
If I told you my parents made that decision,
matter?
. . . .
. . . .
Who was my father?
Should a woman marry a man with smaller feet?
Huh?
The mood could be lightened a bit, no?
You think this is funny?
Would you rather we cry than laugh?
What do you mean?
What do you think I mean?
Was he a bad man?
What if this part of your story is tragedy—do you still want
to know?
Is he dead?
Can’t you see I really don’t want to speak of him?
Why?
Why does evil try to collapse our hearts?
Because good is fleeting?
Is that a question?
Maybe I don’t wanna know right now, okay?
So, have you found a little of what you hoped for here?
It’s a start, right?
Will you stay in Ghana for a while?
Do you want me to?
. . . .
. . . .
Will you be up for meeting my friends tomorrow?
Will there be more pineapple?
I hope you’ll understand that after we break bread, you
must go back down the mountain, leave in the afternoon,
because getting stuck here during rainy season is a horrid
experience, all right?
Why, what happens?
Ever been in a landslide?
Metaphorically speaking?
You get your wit from your mother, you know that?
How do you know that?
You didn’t know we grew up together?
How would I?
She didn’t tell you?
She died, remember?
. . . .
. . . .
. . . .
Is it safe for you up here during the storms?
Awww, you’re worried about your . . . mother?
When will I see you, when can we talk again?
How about I take you to the museums, the markets, and
show you around Ghana?
Have you been to the slave castle?
Is that a place you’d like to see?
Is it painful?
We’ll resume this discussion and our reunion in, say, three
days, under the big coconut tree?
That depends—do you mind a camera in your face and
our little Princess Sia climbing on my head?
Will you give her twenty hugs and kisses for me?
And winks?
Ahhh, you’ve given me a smile and a forever dream to build
a new world on, Blade Morrison.
That was not a question, so I guess I win the game.
What I’ve won today, more than makes up for the loss.
Dream Variation: Awakening
I fall out
of consciousness
into a deep,
unwavering sleep
again.
The spider
returns,
but this time
there are no
cookies
or cupcakes,
just pineapples
and Sunny
and Lucy
telling me:
Blade, wake up, turn around.
Wake Up, Turn Around.
TURN AROUND,
BLADE.
A New Day
Wake up, sport! It’s back down the mountain day,
Rutherford says, so close to my face, I can smell his
breath, untainted for the first time in years. Standing
next to him is my mother.
You were dreaming about that spider again, she says.
You remember that book you used to love when you were a
kid? he asks.
Charlotte’s Web?
No the other one you made Sunny and I read to you every
night. You stopped reading it when she—
I don’t remember.
Was it Anansi the Spider? Lucy says.
That was it, Lucy. We even made up songs about that
dayum spider.
In Ghana folklore, Anansi carries knowledge and stories to
help us triumph over challenges.
Come to think of it, Blade, that’s when we knew you were
gonna be a rocker.
You’ve been dreaming up your childhood, my dear, Lucy
says. Remembering the gift you have. Your father tells
me you are a natural storyteller, that you weave powerful
songs.
You said that, Dad?
Yeah, he said it, Uncle Stevie hollers. Back from the dead,
eh?
Birdie, get this rebirth on camera. Get us hugging, Dad
says, and she does just that,
and it’s not all that bad
to be
in the spotlight
anymore.
We’ve missed you, Mr. Blade, Joy says, kissing me on the
cheek.
At the top
of a mountain
across a rainforest
in the middle
of the bush
it seems
I have figured out
the dream
and discovered
that what I’ve been
searching for
has been inside
of me
this whole time.
We walk outside
where the sun blinds
and cures
at the same time.
I wave at the children
and still feel like
I’m floating
through a web
of dreams,
pulling strands
of spider silk
away from the past,
so I can step into
the here
the now.
Conspiracy
A Ghanaian bon voyage feast
has been prepared
to nurture our spirits
before the long
journey back.
After the meal
Joy says, with devious smile,
Perhaps you should play something for us, Blade.
I don’t have my guitar, I hit back, swiftly.
Use mine, Dad says, high fiving Joy and handing me his
Custom-Polished-Finish Godin, which no one has ever
played but him.
Yes, won’t you play a song for me, Blade? Lucy says,
knowing she’s won the second she asked.
Whatchu know about that 5th Avenue Archtop, kid? That’s
a vintage guitar right there, Uncle Stevie shouts at me.
Watch and learn, old man, I shoot back,
readying myself
to play
the biggest concert
of my life.
Track 13: Landslide
ROCKERS: FLEETWOOD MAC / ALBUM: FLEETWOOD MAC / LABEL: REPRISE / RECORDING DATE: JANUARY 1975 / STUDIO: SOUND CITY STUDIOS, VAN NUYS, CALIFORNIA.
Stevie Nicks was tired.
In her twenties
with a mountain
of woes
and a notebook
filled with music
to help
her climb
out of it.
Hmmm, sounds familiar.
Unsure
if she should continue
as a musician
or go back to school,
she gave herself
six months,
six more months
to find her song.
She went to Aspen,
and with great mountains
surrounding her,
she wrote a song
that became a classic.
And so did she.
And so did her band.
I think I have found
my Aspen,
my great mountain,
yet a
is still afraid
to climb
to face myself.
I’m still afraid.
to read
The Letter
like the words
themselves
will cause
a landslide
of emotion
that will bury me
alive.
What if it’s too much?
What if I let them—her—down?
What if I can’t survive the landslide
of love
that I’ve found
all around me?
Lucy walks us to the path
we hug goodbye
for a long, long time.
I declare, it’s a weird life, Blade, when your deepest prayers
and hopes are fulfilled, she
says.
She is everything
I never expected her to be.
And hoped she could be.
And prayed she would be.
Thank you, Lucy November, I say, not wanting to let go.
I love you, is what I want to add, so I do.
Home
The walk through
the forest
and down from
the mountain’s summit
is uneventful
and filled
with silence
and happiness.
The bus
takes us back
to the place
we all call home.
We are met
by children and adults
who cannot hide
their emotions.
We think
they will celebrate
our return with feast
and dance all evening.
But it’s not
a celebration that’s
on their minds . . .
Chaos
There is so much commotion.
So many people shouting
at Joy
we don’t know
where to run
who to see
what to do.
It’s Sia, she says to us. She is sick. We must go.
Where, where is she?
We dash
to the local hospital,
a thirty-minute drive,
and suddenly
the rainforest
the pineapple
the familial reunion
seem far, far away
and a much easier trek
than this.
Diagnosis
Rutherford says he’ll pay the world to save her.
But money can’t buy everything.
Why did you tell me she was okay? he yells at Joy.
We did not know how serious it was, she answers, between
sobs.
IT’S MALARIA, HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW? he
continues.
Dad, you don’t need to scream at her. She’s scared too.
We all are.
What are they doing for her? he asks, somewhat cooler.