Mariama
Print this Page- By Susan Rich
- Country: Niger
- Dates of Service: 1984–1986
Late afternoons when Mariama held court
in our shared and barren yard
I would pick a favorite for her
from among the motorcycles
and secondhand Citroens
imagine interviewing the assorted suitors
at least to ease the traffic jam
the spectacle outside our house.
I'd wonder what she had
to make men want to charm her so
wait under the eyes of a prickly sun
flies climbing inside their collars
like old age sneaking up close.
Was it the sincere disinterest
with which she greeted each one
obese or debonair, rich or rather
less poor? Sometimes friends
who came to visit me
would turn and go to Mariama first
sanu, sanu—how are you? I'd hear them say
before the knock came at my door.
What magani, what potion, did this adolescent hold
to inspire men's overheated dedication,
their ankles creaking as they shifted
their feet in line. Mariama told me once
her father was afraid that she was getting old
and demanded that she choose a bridegroom soon.
After all, she said, he's the one
that gets my bride price: twenty goats
and a Sony stereo. It's a bargain,
she spit her words
across the yard and they all know it.
Later when Zarma the cat was killed
cut into bite size pieces
we had the only other conversation
in all the time we lived together.
Sai hankuri, sai hankuri,
have patience, have patience
was her advice.
This she repeated like religious vows
a prayer that someday
the right answer would come.
About the Author:
Susan Rich (Niger 1984-86) was an English teacher in Zinder, Niger. Her poems have appeared in the Christian Science Monitor, the Massachusetts Review, Southern Poetry Review, and Passages North. She holds degrees in English from Harvard University and the University of Massachusetts.