When You Say Akata

by Helen Nde

When you say Akata Remember You are speaking of a brother, A sister, a child, Mother, father Kidnapped from home Raised on far-off shores Chained and beaten Until hope became a faint glimmer Until home became a weak whisper Until humanity tasted bitter

Remember You are not speaking of yourself Because you had Africa’s forests, Her mountains, deserts and hills, Her rivers and other waters To hide in when snow fell in the tropics You had ancestral breasts to suckle on Food for that long winter And grandparents who remembered to teach you The language of your people

Remember That the white man used porters Your own uncles Willing servants, joyful warders Who helped them draw that border That split your father’s compound into two countries And made your cousin a stranger And started the wars that have left you an orphan And started the quarrels that have driven you from home To the place where the Akatas Have labored and fought So you have a place to come to After your father’s house burned to the ground

Helen Nde is a lover of wildflowers, coffee, cats, and words. She was born in Bamenda, Cameroon where she spent the first 21 years of her life, and now lives in Denver, CO where she fights diseases by day as a hepatitis epidemiologist and by night curates findpalavawoman.com, a blog where she delves into the lives of Cameroonian women with essays, poems, short stories, and rants. She hopes to present a more nuanced account of what is contained in the hearts and minds of the sisterhood of women of which she is a part. Her goal is to present alternate possibilities.