Clay Plates: Broken Records of Kiswahili Proverbs

Clay Plates

SHOKA HUSAHAU, MTI HAUSAHAU

 A man crying alone is ugly.

Uglier than any flower I have

ever seen in any painting.
The list of men I have loved

is long. I write each name

on a clay plate, lovingly.
I place plate over plate, I

resist the counting instinct.

I run my index over the edge.
The clay is cold now, and

a little dry. Now I have built

something. A steeple, a minaret—
the edifice of unseemliness.

My father was the first man.

A crying father is an impossible thing.
A crumbling face, leathery skin moist,

eyes small and disappearing, fisted

hands. I ran my index down his cheek,
I said, thank you thank you thank you.

Alexis Teyie