The Milk of Birds Read Online Free Page A

always said, If you can walk, you can dance; if you can talk, you can sing.
    Saida Julie said you will be curious what I did every day. Girls do different things in America.
    I milked the animals. I ground millet. I carried water from the wells. I gathered berries, grasses, and firewood in the bush. I washed clothes. I brewed tea. My father, God’s mercy upon him, liked it very, very sweet. My mother did without sugar so he could have double. The women in the village used to tease her, Now we know why you are Ibrahim’s favorite.
    When my father grew angry, my mother handed him a stalk of sugar cane. Chew on this, she said.
    That was my mother before. She could make even my father laugh.
    She will not dance again, but if I could just hear her sing.
    I am sorry. That is all I can say for now.
    Your sister, Nawra

Nawra
    A PRIL 2008
    â€œMaybe tomorrow Saida Julie will come,” Adeeba says. “She is one of the khawaja who keep their promises. Not like Madame K. C. Cannelli. She must be married to a headman. An American Halima.”
    â€œBut Halima would not give money to a nothing girl,” I say.
    â€œShe would if she thought there was some benefit to her,” Adeeba says. “Today we must go together to collect wood.”
    â€œLike last time?” I say. “No, City Girl, your head is made for different things than carrying wood.”
    â€œThis time I will bring a rope,” Adeeba says.
    â€œYou cannot lead wood like a donkey. It has no legs.”
    â€œI will tie the wood together and strap it to my back,” Adeeba says.
    â€œAnd where will you get this rope?”
    For all her answers, Adeeba does not have one for this.
    â€œIf the next gift comes, you must buy a rope,” she says. “When we are not gathering firewood, we can tie things down.”
    Before these gifts, I had never held money. Now before I spend each coin, I turn it over and over in my hand, like one of my sister Saha’s stones. But the coins do not have the same beauty, for they have been shaped by men, not God, who makes not one thing exactly like another. Round and flat, thecoins are pleasing enough with their words and pictures and numbers, but they are all the same.
    Their beauty lies not in their form but in their deeds. The coins have brought my mother healing herbs. And I am grateful for those days I do not have to walk beyond the camp with my fear, looking for firewood.
    Why does Madame K. C. Cannelli not write? I do not think Saida Julie has told her of my dishonor. Perhaps she prefers to aid a smart girl like Adeeba.
    We are still arguing when we hear, “ Ayah !” The cry moves through our section, but it has no panic. Words soon embroider it with joy. “The saidas ’ car!”
    Adeeba grabs my hand, and we run toward the meeting place. Beside us hurry even those who grumble in their jealousy, who say that the saidas are wasting their money because doing a favor to women is water that has missed its stream. We hunger for news, especially good news, but anything to reshape the sameness of the days.
    Sand has scoured the saidas ’ car, no longer white but gray. It moves slowly on its big tires as silly children jump at the closed windows.
    At last the driver stops. I am relieved when Saida Julie steps out and waves to us. But her smile does not come from her heart.
    Khawaja surround the saidas like bees.
    Opening the car from the back, the driver pulls out the metal table with its legs folded underneath. He is not the same driver as last month. Suddenly he slams his hand against the car. “How can I set up with all these people here?” he asks.
    Saida Noor touches Saida Julie on the back. “Please make room for the girls in our program,” she says to the crowd.
    No one moves.
    â€œThey walk naked in a country that is not theirs,” Adeeba says to me.
    â€œPlease,” Saida Noor says. Her lips tremble, and her eyes tell us she has not slept.