Coumbite
by Sony Ton-Aime
The women lead the way with their skirts tied up their bellies, stomping the
ground, shaking big buttocks. Fifty choppers thrumming in the air, the hoes
of the men lost their sound under the rumbling of the elder’s chant. In the
clamor, LaWomann’s voice comes on uninvited:
Samba he, samba he, samba he Samba he, samba he, samba he
Samba comes tambou in hands a little oilier than his front. Drunk. The voice
stammers, a hammer hitting carboard. Nothing left here except for an urge.
Creature of habit, he sticks his tongue out when he approaches the boys. The
girls look him down, witches of another time. LaWomann invigorates
delicate men:
Samba he, samba he, samba he Samba he, samba he, samba he
Men with asthma complain too much, live on the communion of
brotherhood. Stumps begging for flowers on dry soil. That morning, one
rooster forgot to crow and a man lost his ax. There are pebbles in his rice.
LaWomann crunches her pillows under her armpits, lowers her voice, begs
to differ, and whispers:
Samba he, samba he, samba he . Samba he, samba he, samba he
The children fill the holes with handfuls of corns. It is life. Men dig holes,
children occupy them, and women mend the world. One, two, three, tchoupth.
They stop the dance when the drums start their rolling. Bellies gurgling
calling out for intermission. she goes:
Samba he, samba he, samba he Samba he, samba he, samba he
This poem first appeared in the Spring 2018 issue of the Oakland Review
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