Baggage lost, rains wrung dry,
stories scoured by whims of air,
I arrive a stranger
worn thin by voyaging,
by wondering and warring,
by my tribe’s sixty-thousand-year march.
Has my scroll of rivers
unwound to its end?
I ask, but no one living knows.
The map to my village?
Nowhere found.
Grandmother elephant refuses to say
where she has carried
the bones of my name.
Baobab’s broad back shields me from sun
while wind-through-tall-grass
whispers, Here!, but whirls on.


