Fenestrations in the Caribbean

Sao Paulo smelled of burning sweetness. It was nostalgic, like the smell of those times in Anuli's childhood when children from the neighborhood roasted licked-out seeds from fresh cashews in nail-fenestrated Bournvita tins. Even though the rage and chaos of Nigeria were still emboweled somewhere in her, she felt light here, the kind of lightness that occurs when everything is alive with beauty. Brazil was a dream she had held for a long time, and finally dwelling in it felt delusional, as though if she blinked her eyes for a millisecond, everything would vanish. But she had been blinking ever since: at the streetlights, the skyscrapers with windows like shadows, the inscriptions, and the sun above the sky that seemed to settle on the dyed hair of the street children. 

It was evening, and they were outside the camp for the poetry slam. Anuli's interest had piqued when she had read about it on the schedule for the day’s program. The delegates all wore something emblematic of their country. The Malawian girl wore her country’s flag as a skirt. The embossed red sun of the flag adorned her backside, rising above her backside. The Brazilian wore his own as socks reaching beyond his knee. She liked him, and occasionally, before they finally met after a workshop earlier that day, she had stolen frequent glances at him. He held a beautiful laughter that seemed to be immovable, always gracing his face. Once, his eyes had caught back at hers as she quickly lent her gaze to something else. She felt insecure that in this place full of elitism and professionalism, in this place where everyone spoke with one particular posh accent, in this place where young people from different countries had convened for a United Nations SDGs project, she was admiring people and creating wild fantasies in her little violent head. That she was sensual. That she wanted to taste this whole varnishing country. This enigmatic Brazil. 

The first girl who recited what she called poetry was from Colombia. She was slim, tall, and had the cheap smartness of one who had received too much education. Anuli did not like her. She had been too violent. And her poetry resounded with this loudness, this echo she felt was too unnecessary. While her poetry had attempted to highlight the sorrows of Colombia, the children who were being ravaged by crimes larger than them, and the high rate of prostitution and rape, she seemed to be agonizing about it. And here wasn't a very fine place to exist with agony. Her eyelashes flickered as she left the stage and came back to her sitting position, which was beside Anuli. 

“Nice performance. Beautiful lines.” Anuli said, smiling at her. 

“There’s nothing beautiful about the lines.” She retorted, ending with a brief snort that could have been missed if Anuli’s ears were not dog-alert. 

After the Colombian’s performance, the charismatic MC took the stage and began yelling at the crowd. He was loud, but the sea beyond swallowed his voice so that it became like one segregated whiff of air. 

“Who says the world doesn't have wonderful poets? Who? Mehn, I've been pushed off the edge of my seat by metaphors. That was a passionate performance by Colombia. Now who do we have next? Errrm, I think it's the host country. Brazillll!!!!” He ended with his hand thumping the darkness. His smile was wild, lighting the shadows streaking his face. 

The Brazilian began approaching the stage. He walked gracefully, carrying the air of finesse of a model without the intention to stun. Anuli wrapped her hands around her body. She felt chillingly cold with expectation. She briefly remembered when they had spoken after the workshop, how she could not hold a steady gaze at him, how something in his glinting eyes seemed to make her slip. His hair was dyed too, the color of Brazil. From where she sat, the canopy of heads blocked off his lower body so that all she could see was his cocoa-colored chest lined by a medallion. He was smiling, and for a moment, it felt like it was at her. 

“Errm, good evening, delegates…” he stuttered. “I have no real talent for poetry. I mean, the only thing we do here in Brazil is play football…”

He was interrupted by laughter from the audience. Anuli found herself laughing sheepishly. The laughter warmed her heart, opened her body so that the lulling from the distant sea seemed to filter into her body, and her anxiety winded out from her. 

He had not really paid heed to a poetry performance. It felt like a standup comedy, and to Anuli, this was real poetry. For she had always believed the genre to be boundless and surprising. Perhaps this was a vindication for the bias brewing in her towards him. When he was done, he walked back to sit amongst the delegates. He was seated a few bodies away from Anuli, but she could breathe him, caught in this burning sweetness of Brazil. 

The MC was up on the stage again. He was saying that  to end this segment, there would be one more performance. Anuli felt a string of peace strumming in her because she believed that it would be nearly impossible for the odds to end with her, amongst the legion of delegates who had not yet presented. She had a poem offhand, but then, she had never been ready for anything. Worse, she could never be ready for anything here in Brazil, where everything was racing with beauty. So what she heard next marrowed her to the bones. 

“Alright, because we have not had any presentation from Africa, I feel the deep urge to call on Ghana, but I guess some other Africans here will deem it to be unfair.” He laughed. “Now! To represent Africa, from the towering hills of the West, let us welcome Nigeria!!!!!”

Anuli felt a wetness creep under her. The lightness in her transformed into a sizzling vibration. The 60% of water in her body seemed to have drained from her. She had become a desert. She stood up but found herself empty of procedure. The audience was clapping and yelling, Nigeria! Nigeria! Nigeria! Their voices crashed against her ears. She crawled up to the stage, and while she gazed at the canopy of heads, the tint of light seemed to blur her view. The blur closed off her head too, so that she could not remember what it was she had planned to recite if the odds came against her. The only thing she still felt tangible was the smell of burning freshness. That smell of history, of fruits from trees being blistered by flies and splashes of sunlight. She stood there, empty and still, and soon, the voices began to drown. It felt like the silence was approaching, whale-like, to swallow her. But then, a thin burst of freshness opened up the blur, and through it, she saw a terracotta face staring at her. It held a smile, a hope that seemed to speak into her soul. The head was nodding, slightly, as though it was saying, I trust you. Then, true to her intuition, she heard him mutter, I trust you, Anuli. His silent voice found a new mint in her body. Anuli found her laughter. And she found the words: 

Sao Paulo smells of burning sweetness

Like my childhood in Africa…