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  To HP, who showed me the pencil.

  —AP

  Thank you, God, for this gift. I dedicate this book to the children at St. Mary Kevin Orphanage Motherhood in the small town of Kajjansi, Uganda. These brave children have shown me resounding Joy.

  —SWE

  PART 1

  OUR FARM

  South Darfur, Africa

  September 2003–March 2004

  WHEAT

  Finally, I am twelve.

  Old enough to wear a toob.

  As soon as I wake,

  Muma whispers a birthday wish.

  “Blessings for all the years to come, Amira.”

  My mother has been awake for hours,

  starting early with farm chores.

  On this birthday morning

  bright

  as the sun’s first yawn,

  ripened wheat

  sways.

  Its golden braids

  are woven with the promise

  of a hearty harvest.

  Ya, wheat!

  Our greatest crop.

  Our gleaming pride,

  stretching tall,

  glinting beneath the sun’s smile.

  Ya, wheat!

  You will make

  flour,

  loaves,

  golden cake.

  Ya, wheat—such abundance!

  Our village glistens,

  greets me

  with a wink that shines bright

  on this new day.

  On my new year.

  DANDO’S DELIGHT

  As this special morning stirs,

  I watch

  a sparrow.

  She juts

  from the wheat’s strands,

  rustling.

  Dando runs up from behind,

  scoops me into strong arms,

  folded loaves,

  inviting me to ride.

  “Come, girl child, fly!”

  I squeal.

  “Dando!

  I’m now too old and too big

  for this little-girl game!”

  “Amira Bright,

  it is true that you are taller,

  but you are never too old

  to greet the sky.

  Up, up, girl!”

  He swings me,

  long legs,

  okra-toed feet,

  dusty,

  flailing.

  High up,

  delighting.

  “Show the other birds

  how precious you are,

  Amira Bright!”

  My insides flip-flop.

  Dando shouts,

  as if proclaiming a great truth:

  “Amira Bright—yaaaa!

  Girl child, rising.”

  In Dando’s arms,

  I can fly.

  In Dando’s arms,

  I am bright.

  Up, up so high.

  All of me.

  LOST TOOTH

  When we were six,

  and small,

  and filled with silly giggles,

  Halima’s tooth came loose.

  She wanted it gone.

  She asked me to help.

  Halima, my so-close friend.

  Together we wiggled and tugged

  the tiny,

  wobbly speck of white

  that hung tight.

  That tooth was stubborn.

  It wouldn’t give.

  Halima yanked at it.

  So hard, she tried.

  Oh, that tooth!

  A little bitty pest with a mighty will.

  One day,

  I told Halima to open her mouth

  as wide as a yawning hyena’s.

  I pinched the tooth

  between my thumb and biggest finger.

  Bent back that baby thing,

  jerked it—pop!

  Halima’s tooth flew from her,

  landed in the sand.

  We sifted through cream-colored grains,

  searching.

  But it was truly gone.

  Halima said, “Aakh—that hurt!”

  I said,

  “Yes, but you are free of it, Halima.

  It’s time to be happy!”

  DIZZY DONKEY

  “Let’s play dizzy donkey,”

  Halima said.

  We faced each other,

  fingers laced—and we spun!

  Heads back,

  noses up.

  Whirling girls

  together.

  Twirling,

  giggly-tipping,

  sideways sky,

  tummies churning,

  turning us

  into

  dizzy donkeys.

  OPPORTUNITY

  I thought silly giggles

  and dizzy donkey

  would always be.

  But today

  Halima and I

  must say good-bye.

  Her father is determined

  to find something more.

  I hear him tell Dando

  he wants to go from small to big,

  from village to city.

  He’s looking for something he calls

  Opportunity.

  Halima’s father no longer wants to sell his wares

  at our small weekly village market.

  He’s eager to meet customers

  in Nyala’s bustling bazaar.

  Patrons who,

  every day,

  will pay

  higher prices

  for his salt, sugar, coffee, and corn.

  He wants to live among lively people,

  and cars

  and things fast and shiny.

  And,

  Halima’s father,

  he’s always mumbling something

  about leaving before it’s too late.

  Halima’s mother, a weaver,

  is excited

  to show off

  her patterned fabrics

  to city women and wealthy foreign visitors

  with big wallets.

  Words flap from her

  like giddy chickens escaping their pen.

  She is so squawky, that woman.

  Especially when she talks about life in the city.

  Today I wonder

  if Halima’s mother

  has wing feathers

  hiding beneath her toob.

  SCHOOL

  Halima tells me

  that with the money her parents earn

  they will be able to afford to send her

  to Gad Primary School,

  on the outskirts of Nyala,

  Darfur’s largest town.

  There’s word in our village about Gad.

  Much of it scorn.

  Some, praise.

  Talk of Gad is a burlap sack

  of mixed opinions.

  Gad is a school that welcomes girls.

  Gad pushes past tradition.

  I want to go to Gad.

  I’ve never seen that school.

  I know of it only through village rumblings.

  Whenever Halima speaks of Nyala

  and of Gad,

  I am reminded that she is truly the child

  of her mother,


  flap-flapping with excitement

  about her new city home and school.

  My friend’s parents are modern people,

  not stifled by tradition.

  Most others in our village

  are nothing like Halima’s mother and father.

  Most are as closed-minded as donkeys

  who will not turn their eyes to see anything

  beyond what is right in front of them.

  Most are small, not big, in their thinking.

  This is especially true of Muma.

  When it comes to schooling,

  my mother is the most tight-minded of anyone.

  She does not like the idea of Gad,

  or any place where girls learn

  to read

  or write,

  in Arabic or English,

  or think beyond a life

  of farm chores and marriage.

  Muma,

  born into a flock of women,

  locked in a hut of tradition.

  That hut.

  A closed-off place

  with no windows for letting in fresh ideas.

  Sometimes I want to ask,

  “Muma, can you breathe?”

  PINCHED

  This morning,

  Halima’s family has loaded their oxen

  with everything they own.

  Tin pots.

  Grain buckets.

  Sleeping straw.

  Firewood.

  Saying good-bye to my

  so-close friend hurts

  worse

  than yanking a tooth.

  When her oxen’s hind parts

  become a rippling blur on the horizon,

  I’m pinched

  by two feelings at once.

  Aakh—

  I will miss my so-close friend.

  Aakh—

  I do not like being left behind.

  I wish I were the one

  leaving our village,

  going from small to big,

  searching for something called

  Opportunity.

  From inside me comes a tug—pop!—

  I cry.

  THE WAGER

  Dando and Old Anwar

  have made a bet.

  Who can grow

  the most tomatoes

  by picking time?

  “My fruits are always

  more plentiful

  than yours,” says Old Anwar.

  Dando would brag

  about his tomatoes

  all day

  if he didn’t have other work to do.

  “Your tomatoes

  are green knots of nothing.

  You may have

  more, but it is more of what is paltry.

  My tomatoes are more.

  More plump.

  More beautiful.”

  Old Anwar says,

  “Proud man, it is ugly to be so boastful.”

  My father’s hands rest firmly at his hips.

  He’s having fun ridiculing Old Anwar.

  “Your little green rocks, struggling on their vines.

  You believe they are tomatoes.

  I believe they will crack the teeth

  of anyone who dares to bite into them.

  How do you expect to feed people

  with those gnarly things?”

  Dando won’t stop.

  “You should use what you are calling tomatoes

  as washing stones

  to pound stains from your clothes.”

  Old Anwar is wearing a gray jallabiya.

  He waves his fist,

  right up to Dando’s face. “Bah!”

  Dando leans hard toward Old Anwar.

  He scowls.

  “Bah to you and your lumpy tomatoes!”

  Old Anwar stomps off,

  dust rising

  from his sandals.

  FRUITLESS

  Why do grown-up men argue about such silly things?

  Tomatoes don’t care

  which ones in their group are green or gnarly,

  or small,

  or red or plump.

  They’re just fruits.

  They don’t know anything

  about being ugly or pretty.

  Old Anwar and Dando,

  friends who have fun arguing.

  Old Anwar has been our neighbor

  for my whole life.

  But then this tomato wager started,

  and brought with it a war.

  A war about tomatoes!

  So dumb, this tomato fight.

  CONTEST

  In the evening before I sleep,

  Dando comes to my pallet.

  “Dream of good things, Amira Bright,” he says.

  I ask,

  “Why do you and Old Anwar fight about fruits?”

  Dando tries to reason with me,

  but he is not convincing.

  “We are not fighting. We are having a contest.”

  WAR

  My father tries to explain something

  that is more twisted

  than a tangled

  skein of raggedy thread.

  “Amira, we are living in a time of war.”

  I’ve heard the elders talk of this.

  But Dando is doing more than talking.

  He is telling.

  I listen.

  Like a mangled mess,

  Dando’s words are

  hard to follow.

  I can make no sense

  of anything he says.

  He uses strange terms:

  Persecution

  Rebellion

  Genocide

  I understand a little more

  when Dando explains,

  “There has been fighting for land.”

  I say,

  “It’s senseless

  to fight over something

  Allah has made for everyone.”

  Dando nods.

  “That is only part of the reason

  for this war.”

  My father chooses words

  as if he is carefully selecting only

  the most primed tomatoes.

  “Brothers are killing each other

  over the belief

  that in the Almighty’s eyes

  some people are superior.”

  Dando’s words:

  Twisted

  Tangled

  Raggedy

  Knotted

  Nonsense

  AS I SEE IT

  Harder I listen,

  still trying to piece together

  this nonsense puzzle.

  I say it as I see it:

  “This war you tell me about,

  it is like the battles

  between you and Old Anwar.”

  Dando flinches.

  I say it as I see it:

  “Fighting about tomatoes is such

  foolishness!”

  Dando is quick to dismiss

  my reasoning.

  “Amira, my bright daughter,

  Old Anwar and I are not at war.”

  I say it as I see it:

  “You are.”

  CHORES

  There’s a bad part

  about turning twelve.

  In the eyes of my family,

  I’m nearly a grown-up.

  This means

  I must work even harder at farm chores.

  Muma says

  I’m to accept these duties with grace and obedience,

  and not a speck of complaint.

  And so, I do.

  Daily, I do.

  I haul

  sacks of grain

  from our storage hut

  to the animal corral.

  I weed

  every coarse,

  thick-rooted shoot

  that chokes our

  leafy greens.

  I husk

  corn and millet,

  and anything with a hull

  that needs my nimble
fingers

  to remove its shell.

  I peel

  potatoes, onions, pumpkins, squash.

  I chop-chop-chop

  all of these

  for making them sing in a pot.

  And now, since I’m

  nearly grown,

  I have a new chore—

  raking cow plop

  to spread at the base of our crops.

  This special duty

  has brought me happy friends—

  flies who like to cluster

  on the freshly gathered,

  still-moist mounds.

  I wish

  our cows

  didn’t eat so much grass.

  I wish

  our ample animals

  would give me less to work with.

  BIRTH STORY

  When Dando tells of my birth,

  he smiles as wide as a moon’s crescent.