regarding the man from the Congo

November 8, 2010

regarding the man from the Congo named Fabrice Ilunga who came into our classroom, sat at one of our laminated desks, and told us about his country with a soft, uncanny smile

ebonized eyes and

long fingers linger on

the small handout

in front of him. 

a keen gaze and such smooth skin,

he begins to speak

with quiet words as pale yellow

as his palms.

his small hesitations,

he remembers civil wars and

corruption and places like

Kinshasa.

he knows five languages

and the definition of

injustice

in all of them.

it’s a country of diamonds and gold,

he tells us. 

but it all goes out

and doesn’t come back. 

his laugh is deep and

throaty and real as Mrs. Jones

makes a joke about infrastructure

or electricity. 

it’s difficult to get things done,

he tells us,

if everyone works independently.

and they do.

here in our little classroom,

none of us really get it, because

we’re still staring into space,

or worse, at maps. 

the bell rings

and the class ends;

as we walk away,

he shakes our hands.

for a moment before we part,

my fingers slip smoothly through his,

as though they were piano keys.