suitcases and storms

Dark storm clouds are moving in. 

I have been watching them for the past fifteen minutes from the window behind the desk at which I sit, the fifteen minutes I set aside to write this post. They are moving very fast, and I fear I will be caught in rain on the walk back to my hostel. As beautiful as the rainy season is, maybe its inconvenient timing is Ghana's way of making my exodus in two weeks' time to the motherland less bitter and more sweet.

I've been thinking about suitcases lately, mainly because I'm wondering how the hell I'm going to fit everything I've accrued this semester into mine on the way home. I will be leaving several things here, but I've also bought heavy stuff and I'm taking a Kente garment to my Ghanaian roommate's mom who lives in Alexandria, VA. Kente is really heavy and expensive stuff; it's Ghana's premier fabric, the stuff chiefs (or sometimes Bill Clinton) wear on special occasions. 

Suitcases are funny things. They make our lives easier, but only on international flights. Fly domestically with one of these suckas and they'll charge you $25 USD before you can bat a pretty eyelash and say "boo." 

So this is a poem about my suitcase, and how it can't carry everything.

Which I am okay with.

See you in two weeks, America.

movementONE.

precious contents bound by nylon, lock and key

bulky

wheels for toting,

handles for lugging

it lags behind me, clutched in the grip of my curled fingers

i look ahead

movementTWO.

security checkpoints, x-rays,

herded through, as cattle

destinations and printed labels

i release my grasp, let it go;

whirrs past on a conveyor belt

out of sight

see you there

freedom

movementTHREE.

step one: disembark

step two: show passport; prove identity

step three: claim what is rightfully mine

movementFOUR.

we step out together through automatic doors

it lags behind me, clutched in the grip of my curled fingers

did i forget any thing?

rather, could that thing be stuffed in a suitcase?

wooden trinkets, Kente fabric, ticket stubs and red dusty clothes: 

altars of a land i used to tread

substitutes for a life i cannot pack away