May 25, 2026

by AUDREY MULAMBA

Familiar Stranger

They no longer call me by my name.

It withered on my uncle’s tongue,

dried out like mango skin in a September sun.

The car horns still blare,

but not for me.

And the paths I played on are overgrown

with cassava leaves and forgetting.

I wave to old women by the market—

They squint,

call me my mother’s face.

I nod.

Sometimes that is enough.

This town used to fit inside me.

Now I am the one standing outside,

asking for directions

to a childhood I once knew.

*

Her 7 to 5

She wore a uniform too—

not stitched from pride or pay grades,

but from second-hand cotton.

The garment she always stashed behind 

The footing of the children’s wardrobe.

Up before the sun had blinked,

she boiled water

for a family not hers,

raised children who called her just Mary,

as if her hands hadn’t wiped their fevered foreheads.

Iron in one hand,

hunger in the other—

she fought heated battles daily

on a battlefield of wrinkled linen and mop water.

No anthem they sung for her,

no day off to mourn her own

When her own child fell sick,

she folded her worry

like the starched fabric,

and caught the morning bus anyway.

But there are no medals for the woman

who battles dust,

who vanishes behind countertops,

who carries countries

on a five kwacha plastic dustpan.

*

Instructions for Walking Like a Man

1.

Walk with your shoulders high.

Even when the weight is unbearable.

Especially then.

2.

Do not cry.

Not at funerals.

Not when your name is forgotten at prize-giving day.

Not when your mother says, You’re just like your father.

Laugh instead.

Even if it sounds wrong in your throat.

3.

Don’t cross your legs.

Don’t let your hands dangle.

Don’t drink from straws.

4.

Never talk too much.

Or too little.

Or too fast.

Just enough to sound like a man who knows important things,

but don’t try hard to prove it.

5.

If your heart breaks—

sweep it into your chest like maize chaff.

Do not show the pieces.

They’ll say you’re not ready to be the head.

6.

If you love her—

do not write poems.

Buy bread.

Fix the light bulb.

Be responsible.

7.

If your son falls,

tell him, Up. You’re okay.

Even if he isn’t.

Especially if he isn’t.

8.

Never ask your father why he never hugged you.

He gave you school fees.

That should be enough.

9.

Work hard.

Make money.

Come home tired.

Stay quiet at the dinner table.

Your silence means success.

10.

If you must cry,

Do it in the shower.

Let the water take the blame.