Clay Walls

Edson S. Conn

The whole room was filled with smoke;

With no way for it to get out.

The smoke stains along the walls

Would’ve made you wonder

How many times it's caught on fire!

* * *

If I remember correctly, this room was where my mother would cook and this was the warmest room in the house. She taught me to build a fire that was big enough to cook meals, keep us warm, and provide protection from the mosquitoes that would make their way inside. The fire pit sat in one corner of the room, with the walls blackened and full of charcoal. I don’t remember a time when there wasn’t a fire going at all times of the day. In the other half of the room was the wood. Stacked to the ceiling and always at the ready.

* * *

The wall facing the door was different;

Looked untouched, new, cause it was.

When the heavy rains came,

The bamboo studs couldn’t keep the mud walls together,

The rain would carry the whole wall away;

And dad and I would spend the next day

Quickly rebuilding a new one before nightfall;

Before the wild animals started to wander.

* * *

When he wasn’t drinking away his profits, Dad was a brick maker. He would mold the bricks in the backyard; which in Uganda was unlimited. He would then stack the half-dry bricks on top of each other in such a way that when he lit the whole thing on fire, the biggest bonfire would keep the whole town warm. This was the quickest way for the bricks to dry and make a good house.

I think the house itself used to be all bricks until that one wall collapsed and he couldn’t patch it back up properly so he came up with clay and water. The clay was a beautiful red color that would cast a wonder glare when the sun shone upon it. And when the rains would carry it away, I think a part of Dad said he would replace the whole thing with bricks, but that took too much time and the wild dogs and other animals would make their way inside and eat the food that was stored in that room. So bamboo and clay would have to work together for now.

* * *

There wasn’t much to that house

Someone’s blood and sweat within its walls

And to think I was born on its floors

Protected by its grass roof.

It was something to me

Only if I could see it one more time

* * *

I miss that house. Christmas was always the best because dad would be sober and he would kill a couple of grandma’s chickens and we would all sit in the yard and have a happy meal together. My brothers, my parents, Papa’s, Jaja’s, my cousins, and me. Our neighbors were great and of course, we were friends with the kids. I believe they had three kids and we would do all sorts of dumb stuff together, like try and chase the mother chicken and steal her chicks. (Not a great idea. I remember how scared I was when she fought back by jumping on my head and clawing at it.)

* * *

Dad still lives in that house

Probably with a new family

And all that is left of me

Is the sound of my hands mixing clay for its walls.

My hands sculpting its protection.

And that smell of the smoke;

Why wouldn’t it leave

When there was no wall