Dear daughter

Dear daughter,

Sometimes we wonder

how you’ll describe us when we pass

We know our love was as ever changing

as Mother Nature herself.

 

drowned you with worry

buried you under expectations

uprooted you with furious winds

burnt you with a sharp tongue

yet

we made a home

out of dreams and opportunities

sheltered you

with weary bones

nursed children to adults

from ancient wisdom

in a foreign land

we cannot describe

the need that came over us

when you slipped out

crying

while we were drowning

with sharks hovering

we came to this land

and promptly spat out

it was clear

we left an aftertaste

in the white man’s mouth

a condition of entry

we were not aware

but have learnt

how to hold

at the back of our throats

 

The sweetness of a date

The songs that pull at the threads of our hearts

The blood that carries all the stories that were and are to come

 

This is the tonic that soothes

The rumbling in our stomachs

when there isn’t enough space for

‘we are happy to be here’

and

‘will we ever belong’

to exist at the same time.



Dear Aabo and Hooyo,

I have been

trying to fold

my apology

into words

  

Sorry

Waan ka xumahay

Thank you

Mahadsantahay

 

Perhaps I won’t ever

but the apology lies in

unlearning

reclaiming

knowing

standing

upright

as our ancestors did

 

My spirit lies in

multiple homes

that stretch over

oceans

genealogies

wars

Homes

perfumed with

xawaash and manuka

blessed with

duas and Katchafire

grounded in

Te Tiriti and the Qur’an

 

My first ever home

belongs to my mother’s womb

who had the sense to

swap it out for another

Aotearoa

I’m sorry for trying to

sever

cut

change

that

 

I know now

that you were

just humans

who brought life

but

fear

pain

with it

 

I know now

you took

the curdled milk

soaked in it

to have tender

skin

hearts

to take on

the hardships

of being brown

in a white world

 

I’ll make room

for your expectations

I’ll carry

the weight of your sacrifice

Answer the questions

Dripping in accusation

 

And too

turn it into

blossoming flowers

that grew without soil

Because of you

we are the generation

the soft revolution

of rivers coursing

new paths

that even mountains

cannot stop.

Words by Amal Abdullahi (she/her)