Across the Water, Still Kin

Beneath a tree in Ghana where mango branches bend,

sat two women laughing like cousins who’d just met a friend

One crossed an ocean in story, one rooted deep in the land,

yet somehow their memories fit hand in weathered hand

The elder held seeds in a cloth and said with a grin,

“Tell me, daughter from afar, what grows in your yard again?”

The woman from Georgia chuckled, “Collards, okra, sweet taters too.

My grandma said if they fed her mama, they’ll surely feed you.”

The elder clapped once. “Ah! Okra again shows its face!

We planted that long before ships started racing the waves.”

The younger laughed loudly, “So you’re saying it followed us here?”

“Child,” said the elder, “that plant survived everything that we feared!”

They spoke then of herbs and the ways women heal,

of leaves steeped in kettles and roots ground in meals.

“In my village,” said the elder, “we boil ginger strong for the cold.”

The American nodded, “My great-aunt Nerva did too, her teas could wake the dead, I'm told.”

They both laughed so hard the mango tree shook,

The elder then tilted her head with a teasing little stare,

“Now daughter, be honest, who does all that braiding of hair?”

“My sisters,” she said, “though sometimes we argue and fuss, but nobody braids tighter than a cousin who loves you too much.”

The elder nodded, amused by the tale,

“In my village the gossip grows longer than each braided tail.

Six hours of stories, two hours of style and somebody always brings snacks after a while.”

Then quiet fell soft like dusk after rain,

and the younger spoke of remembering the slain.

“We sing when folks pass, call it homegoing day,

because sorrow feels lighter when spirits show the way.”

The elder looked upward with knowing in her eyes,

“In our prayers too, the ancestors never truly say goodbye.”

The American smiled, “Well that explains a thing or two!

my grandma still checks on me when I forget what to do.”

Just then distant drums rolled warm through the air,

and both women started to move without care

The elder laughed loud, “See? Your feet know the song!”

The younger replied, “Yes, in church we’ve been dancing all along!”

They clapped out a rhythm that echoed the shore,

like waves telling secrets they’d carried before

And the elder declared with a wink full of cheer,

“Seems the ocean tried hard, but our culture swam here.”

So they gathered their seeds and their laughter that day,

two daughters of soil an ocean away

And the elder said softly, though humor still shone,

“Next time you visit, bring those collard greens on.”

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About Kiyaza

Kiyaza the Poet is a multifaceted author and creative whose work bridges poetry, design, and self-discovery. In her book Lost Between the Sheets, she invites readers into her intimate journey through relationships, friendships, and the layered experiences of life as a Black woman. Beyond her literary voice, Kiyaza channels her artistry into Water Lily Studios, a design platform of journals and planners, where she encourages creativity, organization, and self-sufficiency in everyday life.

Her latest creation, Poetry in Bloom, is a collection of handmade, framed poems adorned with pressed flowers, celebrating beauty, resilience, and the art of storytelling.

Kiyaza’s writing focuses on the raw and reflective journey of self-discovery while exploring love, loss, healing, and growth through the lens of a Black woman’s experience.

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