Smoke was coming through the fibrous ceiling and walls of the cellar. Bunches of water grass, piles of yams, sacks of pumpkin seeds, dried dates, containers of spices sat in corners. Why was everyone in there in the first place? All huddled in the center of the room, grasping each other, wrapping themselves with their veils trying to hide, crying, tears running through otjize, praying, trying to call for help with their astrolabes. I saw several of my neighbors in there too. My father, two of my uncles, one of my aunts, three of my sisters, two of my brothers.
My perspective pulled back and now I was just looking at it happening. I could hear my little sister Peraa nearby asking in a terrified voice between coughs, “What’s wrong with Papa? Why’s he doing that with his hands?” Covered in dust, coughing from the smoke. We were in the cellar of the Root, the family home. “We still cannot get out,” my terrified father told me.
0 kommentar(er)
