The Literacy Review - Gallatin School of Individualized Study - New ...

A Letter to Heaven
Salif Kabore
56 Grieving
Today again, like the past 10 years, you have come into my mind and I’ve been
thinking about you. Where are you? How are you doing there?
My daughter—your niece—and my son—your nephew—say, “Hi.” You don’t know
them, but they know about you.
I left Africa four years ago. I live in America now, and I have made a family. Here,
people are rushing every day. They walk fast, they work fast and they eat their lunch
too fast. They’re always talking and thinking about money. I struggle every day to learn
their language, named English. Sometimes I feel funny, speaking this language I did
not expect to speak. But I like it because it helps me to understand their perception of
life, different from our perception, and to make a better life here. Your nephew was born
here and is half white and half our color. His skin looks like coffee with milk. My friends
call him “café au lait.”
Four months ago, I went to visit the family in Africa and took time to get myself
together. Everybody is doing better now. They miss you a lot. Mom showed me your
picture again and talked about the big belly you had. That was funny. Do you laugh up
there sometimes? I hope so, because down here you were very serious, too serious. You
only opened your mind with me.
I remember the day I was getting ready to go to Europe for my artistic tour. You told
me, “Salfo, bring me some chocolate when you come back.” You never had any before,
right? You only heard the word chocolate from the mouths of wealthy people’s kids, and
you wanted to have a piece. Two months later, I brought you the chocolate—only for
you, sister. You ate it and said, “Mamee yaa nassara”—“Me too, I am white now.” The
other brothers and sisters were laughing at you. That was really hilarious. Do you have
chocolate up there? Your nephew cannot have it now, though your niece can. He has
to be at least two years old.
You would be 16 years old next year and I miss you more than ever. I miss the millet
juice that you used to give me when I got home. I miss the way you used to call me
“Salfo.” I simply miss you, sister. I see you, walking in the family yard with the big belly
of a poor family that doesn’t have enough food to feed the kids. And I regret…I regret
being late. For being absent when you needed me.
Why didn’t they tell me earlier that you were sick? Why didn’t Dad call me?
Do you remember when I brought you to the hospital and bought all the medicine
the doctor prescribed? And when the next day’s sunrise was starting, your eyes chose
the sunset. You decided not to see this day; it was too much for you.