ripe mangoes sliced just right
sprinkled with paprika and salt
the kind my hooyo’s hooyo seemed to like
riding bicycles on winding streets till it got too dark
never peddling back until we got called
names shaking the weight of the world
just boys given names we had to break into
school books and chapter books left alone on weekends
driven to the neighborhood duugsi
our parents had their reasons
pickin’ fights with boys years older than me
sometimes cousins and friends of friends
adolescence had its treasons
manage the weight of each book
be well versed in literature
while paying good mind to God’s laws
sharing jinn stories after barbecues
hitting up liquor stores when we wanted juice
penny for our thoughts
always remembering
to show undying love for family
loyalty to friends
even friends of friends
cuz it only made sense
some of us lost our way to pushin’ drugs instead
gang bangin’
net and hoop chasin’
call it what you want
young men just want their bread
now we speak real low and laugh a lot less
funny how the years can mingle with
distress
parents growing older
disappointment growing louder
the men of before were men
we never stopped getting the reminder
chasing love
because back then we never really got enough
dressed like execs
hoping for a paycheck fatter than the rest
boys to men
life’s lessons won’t ever stop ceasing
consider it a lifetime of hell disguised as recess
Halima Hagi-Mohamed is a Somali-American writer living in California. Her work deals with themes of identity, culture, relationships and faith. She is the author of Amilah, a collection of short stories and Warda Means Rose.
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