38 WORLD LITERATURE TODAY Santa Isabel Plaza de España The tired afternoon falls over a rhythm of palm trees clad in spring, human, a scattered voice. Above, the moon rounds its silver and, enamored, spins its gratitude – starry light swerves between the coupling of harnesses – through the gothic cypresses that toll the bells. Market River of joy full of the very thing played only by this Stradivarius of beings, trampoline that launches us from the pole of artifice to pristine contact with the virgin, packed bustle of naked Africa. . . . Protocol of baskets and tables, blood clots, deceit, yucca and the solemn fraternity in the act of being emptied and filled in between laughter, drawing coins without currency, rain of ancient sun on their backs. Lean out – by the skin of the day – into that open custom of exchange, a life running through skirts. Point Cristina & Point Fernanda Album of doves that comes to coo the sister couple who sleep in the sea. The air in the trees starts to play mime and comb, kiss and madrigal. Light. Calm. Silence. Waves, nothing more. . . . and the two sisters, wives of the sea. Three Poems Raquel Ilonbé Raquel Ilonbé (Raquel del Pozo Epita, 1939–92) was a poet, musician, and performer. Raised in Spain, in her mid-twenties she returned to Guinea, where she was able to reunite with her mother, whom she had believed dead. Her book Ceiba (1978) compiles poetry written between the 1960s and 1970s. Her collection of folkloric tales Leyendas guineanas (1981) is the result of years of research about the oral tradition of different ethnic groups in Equatorial Guinea. She left several poetry collections (Nerea, Ausencia, Amor, and Olvido) unpublished. My Memories I am growing old, my memories are making me grow old. I want to live and they don’t let me you must smile without complaint. My soul forcefully shouts, my convulsed body twists and complains. I want to give more, to scatter my petals across the naked lakes tracing their edge with resting feet. I am growing old, thinking about all that has happened Rivers Speak The rushes cover my body, my feet, my face, so no one sees that I silently listen to the water of the rivers that speak to me. The sound of the stones, grazing the river, are kisses of the afternoon and moon, and kisses of the dawn. One day someone told me that rivers never speak, that they only follow their course and escape wordlessly. How sad I spent that day on hearing his words, I went running toward the river so that he would explain to me why I hear him so clearly and others don’t hear anything. SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 2012 39 photo : elisa rizo Intimate History of Humanity Juan Tomás Ávila Laurel Juan Tomás Ávila Laurel (b. 1966, Malabo) is an essayist, poet, narrator, playwright, and social analyst from Equatorial Guinea, undoubtedly one of the leading voices of the contemporary literature of his country. Some of his most important works from the 1990s and early 2000s are included in the anthology Letras Transversales: Obras Escogidas (forthcoming in 2012). He has been an invited speaker at many conferences and universities in the United States, Europe, and Asia, and he is a frequent contributor to a wide variety of journals and blogs. See his interview on page 41 of this issue. The Name of God Is Christ The name of God is Christ when the world decries its state. – Do you understand me, girl? – Yes, I understand what a madman says. The beasts put their feet in the fire and the alarm sounds in Belgrade for the Hutus to pick up their machete. – Do you understand now, girl? – Yes, and it worries me. Two children have died in Africa, only two, and the crying embarrasses the UN because their money doesn’t buy anything anymore. – Do you understand any of this, girl? – I cry. Goodbye, Guinea, Goodbye I went singing in solitude a song of love and oblivion the marks my feet left in the sand, which the waves erased little by little. The last time that I would live, solitude, distance, the last time that...