Mama Douda

With selected lines from Idir’s “A Vava Inouva”

The aunts spill orange blossom water and toss salt, 

muttering breathless to ward off the evil eye. 

After eating that prickly pear, I had nightmares for days, 

until I told you, Mama. Then they disappeared indefinitely. 

O oxidized laborer of love—

When you steam milk for coffee, I almost faint,

the heaven-scent trailing cat-like down the stairs. 

O creator of flavor—

Your coffee is never bittersweet, but maybe sweet-bitter.

Seeds sprout in my stomach, cactus needle poke when I turn.

Txilek elli yid taburt a Vava Inouva

Rain spills over everything except the clothes hanging out to dry.

Čenčen tizebgatin-im a yelli ɣriba

Your singing brings back the coral reefs, they drip down from our ears.

Ugadeɣ lwaḥc elɣaba a Vava Inouva

In the night a witch turns into a cat and runs behind the tree. 

Ugad-ɣ ula d nekkini a yelli ɣriba ah

Washing my hair used to leave me all covered in grime,

but now I’ve removed my head from my body, 

walk it with me like a fox on a leash. 

The storyteller now counts 

her fingertips, middles, ends.

Put together cinnamon, almonds, orange blossom–

sugar-dusted moon crumbles from the sky into our mouths. 

Fingers stained pink peel back 

to seedy flesh, cold crushes to tongue. 

Yemma hemmleɣ-kem a tas a tas