The Milk of Birds by Sylvia Whitman

Author:Sylvia Whitman
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Social Issues, Girls & Women, Juvenile Fiction, Africa, People & Places, Friendship
ISBN: 9781442446823
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers
Published: 2013-04-15T18:30:00+00:00

Nawra

SEPTEMBER 2008

Big Zeinab says I must not lie down but lean forward with my hands upon my knees.

“Rub Tata’s back with me,” she says to Little Zeinab. “We are not far. Let us think of what is waiting in the camp. You have a shelter? The rain will beat upon the plastic and not upon your back. And a mat? Then you will rest. You have done much of the work of having this baby, so it will come soon. And who is waiting?”

Pain has swallowed my words. Little Zeinab says, “Professor Adeeba.”

“You live with a professor? No wonder you are so wise.”

“And Umm Nawra,” Little Zeinab adds.

“He who has a mother near does not worry,” says Big Zeinab.

“Nawra’s mother does not speak,” Little Zeinab says. “She is not like you.”

“No one is like another,” says Big Zeinab.

“Her heart is like a stone,” Little Zeinab says.

“It was not always thus,” I whisper.

“I know that, for in the daughter we see the mother,” says Big Zeinab. “Let us walk now.”

• • •

Again we have stopped.

“Go ahead,” I tell them. “I will follow.”

“I almost see the camp,” says Big Zeinab. “Soon we will be walking through the mounds.”

“I cannot,” I say.

“Leave your wood here,” says Big Zeinab. “It will be your gift to another tomorrow.”

Already she has lightened my load so that sticks teeter on her head as she hugs others in her arms.

“My mother needs her tea,” I say.

“She does,” says Big Zeinab. “Leave half your wood. With the rest, your mother will cook you a warm porridge with sorghum and sugar and milk.”

“We do not have any of those things, Tata,” says Little Zeinab.

“That is because the united nations of the world do not know how to eat,” says Big Zeinab. “She will make a porridge of corn and oil. Inshallah.”

“The best for us is what God chooses for us,” I say.

“Aywa,” says Big Zeinab. “He who takes to the road will find a companion. God has chosen me to walk with you, and I say you must not stop here.”

We walk again.

“Did you meet Professor Adeeba in her aunt’s village?” Big Zeinab asks.

I do not answer, for my thoughts must tell each leg in turn to move. My legs are strangers to each other.

And I am remembering what I have tried to leave in Umm Jamila—the foul men spitting as they left and the children crying and my father walking out and my mother sending me with Kareema to her hut.

• • •

It is gray now, no sun left behind the clouds.

“You are tired, Tata?” Little Zeinab asks.

“She is braver than she is tired,” says Big Zeinab. “I see a lion beneath those clothes. It is my turn now to tell stories.”

She speaks of her daughter’s wedding, the meeting of families, the preparation of a feast. I cannot tell my ears to listen as well as my legs to walk, so the story comes and goes. But Big Zeinab’s voice is a rope that I keep my hand upon as we move forward in the starless dark.

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