we enjoyed our game of ludo. rolling
die
surfing
through the trails of
twisted
tongues.
traveling west, relaxed tongue, lazily waggle through the vowels, each intonation a smooth cadence. drumming through the ear chamber is a laid-back rhythm.
tongue rolls back in.
we arrived east,
speedy tongues,
vowel clippers,
coarse consonants;
fing for thing,
pacific for specific,
that urban flair.
like die, the tongue rolled again,
still east;
bending the lateral letter.
with the twirling of the tip,
allowing air to escape bilaterally,
exhausted.
lungs full, we snickle, infectious laughter taking custody at will.
yo, your accents are fighting each other,
points out a girl to the left.
of course they do, my mouth houses a civil war, she replies.
for a moment the room goes silent. realization sets in, we are all away from home. drowning suspension, the diasporic, uprooted from the land, loosened soil. the spirit of our laughter forms a cloud above us mocking the present moment.
gwe gila tugile, we retrieve the fragments, at the next roll of die, luganda flows through the room clearing the cloud; calming the mood.
yes, our tongues, twisted, rolling in dirt, retrieving; creatively crafting anew, expanding culture. generation after generation. we still hold on, consulting with our native tongues.