Gutakamba

I have so much to say, and my mouth is not trained to form these words. My tongue was not trained to roll like this, to be bitten with this indifference, this cowardice. My teeth were not trained to bite the hand that feeds, but I must. I must, or it will smother me. There are no words. Mamayi we. I want to live. I do. I do. I want to live. I say with my legs sprawled out and my fists balled. I pound them onto the dusty earth and shake my body like the devil is trying to take it from me. He is. Mama. I want to live. I must. I do not want to be human. I don’t want to walk on two legs. To eat food I exchange silver for. To drink water I exchange gold for. To heal in exchange for paper. I want to hunch over on my hands and knees, sprout fur, and run. Far as I can. I want to howl to the heavens, but I no longer see the stars. The lights, they’re too bright, mama. There is no forest deep enough or far enough. Sooner or later I will trespass. Set my paw on earth that belongs to man, and I will die. Hang on his wall next to my kin as he and his own decide what to build on my grandmother’s land. Our land. Mama. I am dying, if not dead already. I would cry to you, but who are you? What can you do about this sorrow? I want to live, mama. I’m sure you did too. Did it kill you the way it’s killing me? I want to live, I do, but there can be no life here.