Clarion West

Her grandmother’s proud, weathered face – older even than Annie was now – shone in her mind, joined by a chanting voice that rolled Hausa words to meet American realities. Her grandmother always said the rain on a tin roof reminded her of the music of her childhood, two lifetimes and two continents ago. Grandmother’s pride was more than equal to the task of holding onto language and skills through dangerous decades of hiding both, and to bringing it forth when time ripened, to teach the child who listened.Now the words came, words of stability and safety, of community and protection. She built walls for her town with words and rhythms that grew out of ways to keep prowling beasts away at night. Grandmother was a blessing to the whole town, though they’d never known the half of it. She’d say that’s as it should be.