I like the name Boubacar which means "little camel" in Arabic. I also like the music of Boubacar Traore who is from Mali. I wrote a poem this week about a fictitious Boubacar.
Boubacar, coffee flows into the cup.
Coffee colored face. The sun's shadows
strolling along the ground. In the village
an unsociable goat dozing on her feet
chews through stubble. Boubacar,
granddad of all, long necked, big bodied
musical instrument in hand. Sprinkling
sounds comes from scattered tree leaves.
Hot winds today. The feelings are remote.
Boubacar plucks the strings, adults draw
near, children come close on their knees.
A handmade toy lies on its' side in the dust.
Boubacar, singer and poet. Women with
straight backs balance buckets of water
elegantly on their heads, village acrobats
with tired backs and hips. Babies silent
looking pensive and knowledgeable tied
to their mothers. Boubacar musician, shining
teeth in an ancient face, sage, once
handsome. Two beloved wives buried,
six children left. Grandchildren pleading
to know more legends about their
grandmas. As they sit wrapped in blankets
in the chilly dark evening, the smell of
dirt, manure and distant grasses, an old
Tuareg friend comes up and whispers
in Boubacar's ear. Boubacar rises slowly,
frailty holding him back now. The two
old men walk off to talk quietly by the huts.
