This welcome begins the waning hour
of our worship.

Loneliness will ring like a long metal horn
in the heart of iskokai. I have seen you come.

Every object, every breathing thing, has a history.
Even though you do not see

spirits dancing—
they sway in the breeze that stirs your windows.

It is impossible to exist
outside of a story. Life is a loop.

We meet again, at Kofan Daura.
I was housed in the old and weary bones of Baba

Almajiri, his body possessed without the call,
without the hysteric dance of Inna.

From the eyes of his horse, I saw an oasis
of exhaustion. A frayed saddle dragging behind

in the sand. I humbled myself,
adorning my face with an aura of hunger

and stretching out
my hands. He could hear the noisy prayers of my bowl,

the rattling sound of a single cowrie,
pleading for alms.

He reached into his old Bedouin bag
and threw scraps of bread

into my calabash. His voice weak,
his eyes—inane with pain of many nights and days.

He pulled out his sword,
made by a pagan blacksmith in Dalla Hill,

and said, beggar,
this cannot kill my thirst.

I want to fill my gourd with the joy of water
and wet my horse

with the delight of spring.
Kusugu well, I whispered. Go!

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