#napowrimo Day 29

Day 29 - THE TATTERED BOX

Happy Friday, y’all. It’s the second-to-last day of National Poetry Month. Like the times I’ve participated in the past, the 30 poems in 30 days challenge has stretched me as a writer; it’s also brought me back to the joy of writing.

Day 29’s writing prompt is to write a poem in which you muse on the gifts you received at birth — whether they are actual presents or something you’ve lived with. Here’s my poem:

Day 29 - THE TATTERED BOX

By Farah Lawal Harris

When I was born, 

I was given my name traditionally:

I spent seven days 

living anonymously 

until the eighth 

when I received my name.

At my naming ceremony,

in true Yoruba fashion, 

I was surrounded by closest friends and family,

prayed over,

and the following gifts were laid before me:

water so that I may never be thirsty,

pepper so I may live prolifically,

bitter kola nuts, salt, palm oil, and honey,

and something odd—

an unanticipated gift in a tattered box 

with a lid that doesn’t fit.

My parents didn’t notice the box at first,

but when I started school, I did.

I was a brave little girl, so I peered into it 

and pulled out small piece of paper that read:

“This is your final gift.

A box in which you will never fit.”

I threw the paper back in 

and tried to close the lid,

but it didn’t fit.

Maybe it had gotten bent. 

The lid didn’t fit and neither did I—

First generation Nigerian,

not fully American, not truly African.

I became trilingual, fluent

in Salt, Pepa and Spinderella,

Sunny Ade and Fela,

And “Are you there, God? It’s me, Margaret.”

Throughout my life,

the tattered box

has followed me to every home, job,

and friendship.

I used to hide it,

but this year, I decorated it.

It is now on display in my living room.

Ain’t it cute?

The lid still doesn’t fit 

and neither do I.