Fresh Ink 2020
THE BLUE OVER THE ACACIAS Adele Annesi Shouts and the beat of the djembe pulsed the air of Borko. Straw broom in hand, Kadi rushed to the doorway of the thatched hut. Her mother stood on a rock by the main road as the Dogon came dressed in vibrant hues on skin like velvet, their shoulders carrying néré poles. Slung from the poles on leather thongs were long carved boxes like the many-colored beads of a necklace Kadi’s grandmother had worn a long time ago. Following the procession came the villagers wearing mud cloth in the green of the shea nut, the blue of the cloudless sky and orange like the sunrise over the acacia trees on the horizon. Skipping to the beat of the djembe and the sound of the susoy flutes, the villagers raised their hands high, faces crinkled with laughter, songs flowing from open mouths as the boxes bumped along. The procession was not like others Kadi had seen where the people had shuffled past silent as old women, like her mother in the morning before she drank her tea. Outside the hut, Kadi stood on tiptoe to see the next box, its wooden lid stained with red clay and seared with the image of the shikra that soared over the savannah to Mopti and the mountains where Kadi’s mother said her father had gone. Kadi loved the shikra, its sharp yellow eyes vigilant, always seeking. At the sound of singing, she turned and saw the women of Borko swaying and dancing up the road with the throng. One tall slender girl wore a long dress blue as the sea, blue as the bowls made for tourists and sold in the Mopti market. Pressing her back to the outside of the hut, Kadi squeezed her eyes tight to pull inside the colors, the vision of the girl and the blue dress, one Kadi would like if someday her mother would make it for her, if there would be enough material. “Kadi! What are you doing there?” called her mother. Kadi’s flew open. She thrust the straw broom out and shook it. “Sweeping,” she shouted above the din. “Sha,” her mother answered, stepping down from the rock. “You came out to see.” Kadi went to the steps and brushed the broom back and forth as her mother came up the dusty walk. “You don’t like the parade, Maman?” Her mother stopped. “It’s not a parade, only the mayor’s last show before he leaves this earth in the cask he has chosen. Now 84
