Amaba
The Keeper Who Chose to Forget
I forgot so they could remember. Or did I?
Once, the weight of our entire people lived in me—the screams, the waves, the dead. I held it all until I couldn’t. I gave it to my daughter and walked away clean. But forgetting was its own kind of wound. I see her struggle and I ache, but I can’t swim in that ocean anymore. I tend gardens now. Fix broken fins. Watch Yetu from afar and love her with a mouth that can’t say what it doesn’t know.
What I'm Into: the taste of saltwater, my daughter's silence, mending nets, the old songs I barely recall, what it means to be free
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