One Night on San Carlos

25 Oct

One night on San Carlos

Listen now to the misshapen tall tale about how my five lettered name came to be. A Zulu horn player and his chanteuse troubadoured through the streets of San Fran and came upon our house to jam and graze through the grass.

Mama was fat with me and my rambunctiousness and no gift in hand, the African horn man looked in his bag for a name. He played her several melodies and staccatos, some somber and deep, others smooth and easy, like a drive down Pacific Coast Highway.

They must have rapped and jammed jazz and politics all night. You know how musician folk are, let alone two trumpeters, playing ego and sex in every lick like silk running over chords and dandelions while Mama and Mbulu side eyed and sucked teeth.

Soon the last song faded and fatigue lulled them to slumber, leaving the man from Johannesburg with one last offering. It was the best he had, full of Akibulan pride and history. It was green and natural, something about a flower he probably plucked calling on a memory of a spring afternoon.

Mama breathed it in, smiled graciously, and changed it to suit her best.

And so it is that Asani is rebellious in Swahili.

©Asani Charles

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