Mop

Empty Halls

A professor, a good-looking man, walked by her as she pushed a garbage can on wheels with a mop and a yellow sign that read, "Watch out, floor wet." He smiled at her and she smiled back. Then he disappeared. She walked back and started mopping and telling her story, speaking to the empty halls.

"My son is fifteen, Moreno eyes. I can smell his skin. It is like the smell of olives. His father's is like leather and rivers, mountains. He is my mountain lion. The rebels took them both away, stopped their car on a dark, empty road, put hoods over their heads, threw them into the river with rocks tied to their feet. Why? Because they tried to protect the community. They told the police who raped my cousin. My olive tree, my mountain lion, surrounded by rushing waters and stones. I can't swim, so I ran. I ran. And here I am, Toledo. It's not a bad place. People are nice. Winters are cold. I had to pay all my life savings to agents to take me from my country. We almost died in the back of an 18-wheeler packed in with boxes of shoes."

The professor walks by again, clearing his throat. He smiles at her. She smiles back.

"Maybe that's my mountain lion. He's come back from the river."

She begins to dance and whistle, laughing a little.

A story by Pemba Umoja