Jamila Ngomane
I woke up before the sun, the way I always have. The air was still cool, the sky that deep blue just before the light spills over the horizon. I sat up slowly, my back protesting, my knees stiff. The years do that. Seventy-two of them, and each one leaving its mark.
Outside, the first birds were already calling, and I could hear the distant sounds of women moving through the village—feet brushing against the packed earth, voices low and familiar. I used to be one of them, carrying pots of water on my head, my hips swaying with the weight. Now, the younger women do that. My daughter, my granddaughters. I tell them they don’t balance the pots right. They laugh and tell me times have changed.
I have lived in Nampula, Mozambique, all my life. The streets have changed, the houses too, but the red earth and the scent of dust after rain are the same.
The house smells of woodsmoke and last night’s cassava porridge. I tie my capulana around my waist and step outside. The dust is soft under my feet. Across the yard, my neighbor, Teresa, is already sitting on her stool, slicing mangoes. She looks up and waves.
We’ve known each other since we were girls. There was a time when we would whisper about boys and sneak into the fields to eat stolen sugarcane. Now we sit and talk about our knees, our children, the rising price of everything.
Today is market day. I gather my basket, running my fingers over the woven fibers. My hands are slower now, but they still remember the patterns. I used to weave these baskets for selling. Now I make them only when someone asks.
At the market, the air is thick with voices, the scent of dried fish, ground peanuts, ripe papayas. I stop to buy a handful of okra from a woman who looks about thirty. She calls me Mamã with that mixture of respect and impatience the young have for the old.
On the way home, I pass the place where my husband used to sit, before his heart gave out on him. I can still see him there, chewing on a stick, watching the world pass.
At home, I sit in the shade, listening to my granddaughters laughing. I close my eyes and let the warmth of the afternoon settle into my bones.