A storm tarries, hanging over Koffakoi and the nearby Aghien Lagoon. In the village's community hall, I take in the scene through the panoramic window snaking across the room. I watch water fall onto the corrugated roofs of surrounding houses before descending onto the copper colored-earth in pillars.
Rain strands form
A fleeting lyre
Or colonnades
Before it began to rain, I looked into the village’s main well, lightleaded, imagining descent. Now, the torrent underway and the well far out of view, I imagine it filling.
A noonday storm
Sweetens
A stone well
Bundles of just-washed laundry damped in the rain. Deserted mid-wring, they now unfurl slowly. Nearby, people have set out pails to gather water. Already the rainwater spills over the rounded edge of the containers.
The pail brims
Its lip dampens
A thirst is quenched
Some days later, in Grand-Bassam, a kente weaver and a companion lounge under an open-faced shanty. He speaks about his craft, learning it from his father and teaching it to his son.
On a bleached loom
A canoe docks
In a sea of silk
On the beach, boys play on the shore with waves and mares.
Gypsies chase whitecaps
Once saddled
Bloodless horses yield
I stand on the second floor balcony of my aunt’s apartment. Before me, white shirts sprinkled with white dust from the replastered balcony above. Below me, my sandaled and bug-bitten feet. Around me, the swelling murmurs of pre-resurrection day prayers.
Dreams of revival
A mosquito drinks
A preacher’s blood
Preparing to leave, I take a final walk through Riviera 4.
Wind meets flesh
A prodigal touch
From a distant womb
