Mwajuma

Born a strong girl under the African sun
Up in the mountains of Kenya, 1951

Grew up poor on her tribal land
Turned sixteen and went to work for The Man

For more than thirty years, she’s made them their tea
Washed their clothes, cooked them their meat

SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME
IT’S BEEN A LOT OF LONG YEARS GONE
SINCE I STOPPED DOING THE DREAMING

One warm Langatta* morning in January
Amidst confusion, she was my sanctuary

I got lost on my way back to town
But instead, a new friend’s what I found

Met her every morning at the market in Karen**
Her forty-five minutes to conversate in freedom

For two months in my life, I had a best friend
She spoke British with Swahili accent

I was her confidante and she was mine
From eight-thirty in the morning, ‘til a quarter after nine

She always smiles, but inside she’s sad
She tested Positive and her kids have no Dad

SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME
IT’S BEEN A LOT OF LONG YEARS GONE
SINCE I STOPPED DOING THE DREAMING

On the Friday morning of my departure
She brought me a single solitary blue flower

Said, Ithaka-we didn’t know each other long
But I love you mzungo***, like you was my own son

I’m glad you had good times in my land
But don’t ever forget, heaven and hell go hand in hand

Lots of love and happiness and a lot of sorrow
Same as yesterday, same as tomorrow

‘member me, Mwajuma in your far away land
Once upon a time, a strong African girl

SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME
IT’S BEEN A LOT OF LONG YEARS GONE
SINCE I STOPPED DOING THE DREAMING

(spoken part)
Since we first met
She was always trying to fatten me up
She’s say, “Boy, you’re just skin and bones…
Gotta put a little bit of weight on ya”
And she’d bring me these brown paper bags of food
Down to the open air market where we’d meet up
And wherever I’d spot her
She’d always have this big paper sack
Sitting on top of her cart
Full of cookies or cornmeal or last night’s casserole…
Whatever…an it was funny, cuz…
She’s always handed me the bag
In secrecy under the table
When no one else was looking
Like it was some exchange
Of highly valuable documents…
Something private and special between us…
…and in a way it was…

She always talked about her kids
And how happy she was
That they hadn’t met The Devil
That’s how she talked
Referring to her illness, The Devil
Then she’d laugh and call Him a son of a bitch
But I could never tell if she was talking about her illness
Or her dead husband that gave it to her…

SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME
IT’S BEEN A LOT OF LONG YEARS GONE
SINCE I STOPPED DOING THE DREAMING

© Ithaka Darin Pappas (2001)

*Langatta: suburb of Nairobi

** Karen: village outside of Nairobi named after
• legendary writer, Karen Blixen (Out of Africa)

***mzungo: Swahili for foreigner