— How to plant angel’s trumpet?

— Between July and September, face the sun to choose a cool, airy spot. In fresh soil, dig a hole, take a deep breath, and blow into it. Then, plant a stem about knee-high into the ground. The plant begins to grow and needs more light. If it’s too hot, provide shade or half shade. It requires moderate care. Colors and smiles will blossom.

— Yara Monteiro

(lado a)

o tempo deitou-se
no corpo-baloiço
do abacateiro.

(lado b)

era a infância. era o sol deitado no pouco da manhã.
eram os gafanhotos
em busca de sol verde.
era um tempo desajeitado
antes do amadurecer dos frutos.
a errância da maciez
e do sorriso

— Ondjaki

With effort and persistence, our feet stepped on the land as if they were stepping upon our pain. We also wiped away our tears.

“My daughter, my heart, bound with yours, will grow like the bamboo palm.

We will have a future beyond the narrow confines of life in this neighborhood.

Today we dream; tomorrow we live.”

— Yara Monteiro

Moving from yesterday to today, by walking the ground of generational pain.

— Renata Ramirez, Anna-Sophie Loehr e Christian Debono

On the other side of the world, I was the child with firm, bare feet, with birds in the palms of my hands, tearing at my skin with their beaks. Your sap healed my wounds.

On this side of the world and everywhere else, I see the banana trees of my childhood on the horizon. On my face, a smile, a sad smile.

— Yara Monteiro

His poetry had the color and aroma of hot cocoa.

“The best place to keep you is in the earth,” thought the poet.

— Yara Monteiro

The old people’s enraged eyes contrasted with the frailty of their uncooperative legs, which struggled to reach the edge of the coffee trees where the city’s machines had already begun cleaning.

From the buildings, their faint voices could not be heard. We saw the canes and crutches through the air like swords in protest. The sound of the machines stopped. We won.

— Yara Monteiro

(lado a)

o coração oculto da horta ganha vida.
dentro do fruto
a abundância simples da terra.

(lado b)

guarda em si o sustento da própria jornada.
a sua única semente desperta em segredo,
rompendo a casca sem pressa
para se lançar ao ar.
não espera o solo para começar a vida.
quando toca o chão, entrega o próprio corpo.
o antigo fruto-berço
acerta a nova ramagem.

— Ondjaki

My mother’s recipe for beans with palm oil

500g of beans, 200ml of palm oil, one medium onion, chopped, one ripe tomato, two cloves of garlic, chopped, salt to taste, and water. First, let the beans soak in water overnight to reduce the cooking time. Drain the water, rinse the beans several times, and place them in a pot; add fresh water and cook the beans until they’re very tender.

In another pot, heat the palm oil and sauté the onion and garlic until golden brown, then add the diced, seeded, tomato. Finally, add the cooked beans to the sautéed mixture and gradually add some of the bean cooking water to help thicken the sauce, along with some palm oil. Mash a few beans to thicken the sauce until it becomes creamy. Over low heat, stir well until it comes to a boil, then let it simmer for ten minutes. Serve with cassava flour sprinkled on top, or, if you prefer a sweeter alternative, sugar.

— Yara Monteiro

Fátima, in the wilderness of the night, would burn the dry leaves to cleanse the air and ward off creatures, never forgetting to open the windows and doors.

On cold winter dawns, she would make tea, sip some of it, leave some in the teapot for the kids’ breakfast, and pour the rest into her husband’s thermos, along with his packed lunch, to take to the construction site.

Illness by way of cold never entered that house.

— Yara Monteiro

(lado a)

debulhar
a infância
na cozinha.

(lado b)

as unhas escuras de tanto abrir vagens. cada feijão
é um estalo de tempo.
nascem de par em par e só conhecem o fogo
depois
de perder o ninho.
viram festa e vida
no pasto de coentro.

— Ondjaki

My brother cut down the guava tree in our grandmother’s backyard. In a gesture filled with hope, I whispered to the wounded, stunted trunk: “Don’t die.” The silence grew thick.

Some time later, I was overcome by a desire; I grabbed a hoe and pulled it out by the roots.

Nothing should bind us to a place where we are not loved.

— Yara Monteiro

Here, atop the hill, overlooking the river, lies the wonder that is life. We gathered sowings, we shacked up, we gathered pots of food, more than fifty lives were born.

— Yara Monteiro

At the moment of the first day’s dawn and on every day of spring, she offered to the water in the sky, to the white soil, and to the wind rustling the tall fig tree the code of life’s memory.

— Yara Monteiro

I made a horizontal cut in the fruit. I smelled the precious, sweet scent of your body. Your lips called for my kisses. I caressed your dark eyes.

Longing for you, I search for your gestures in the plantation. I bend down, turn the soil inside out, and press my ear against it to listen to the strange heart where my riches and illusions once lived. The plant grows in the ground, and the comfort grows within me.

— Yara Monteiro

(lado a)

o milagre abraça
o abismo.
a flor-relógio esconde um coração ácido.

(lado b)

os braços de corda equilibram a calma e a vertigem:
desenha no ar o roxo com flores,
relógios sagrados.
na casca guardou o sol do verão,
as sementes negras
e a polpa dourada.
rompeu o peito numa explosão de perfume
e entregou às crianças
um sumo selvagem
como o sabor da paixão.

— Ondjaki

“When life begins, it is the size of a pea!”

“And when it ends?”

— Yara Monteiro

(lado a)

a armadura de escamas douradas
tomou pelas mãos a paciência
e o coração do mel.

(lado b)

do solo rústico, um rei erigiu o seu trono.
nasceu da paciência da terra:
veste a carne sumarenta,
esconde o peito.
sob o sol e a estufa,
bebe o tempo a gotas de entregar
a rigidez.
dentro da espada
nasce
a cínica doçura.

— Ondjaki

(lado a)

o perigo, pequeno,
queima a língua e quase cura
o deslembramento.

(lado b)

o frasco vermelho, herança da avó que benzia com fogo.
a malagueta rasga a garganta logo em primeiro
faz chorar todo o depois.
um grão incendeia
a panela
dos silêncios.
a semente crua cruza o peito
e reaprende isso de arder.

— Ondjaki

In the old days, crushed chili peppers were placed on the tongue of a rude child. The child would burn and cry out in pain. “What burns heals.” What hurts me lasts.

— Yara Monteiro

(lado a)

o tempo dita a fibra.
cresce em nós
a doçura do esmagamento.

(lado b)

cresce em gomos o caule. desafia o vento do canavial,
traz a doçura de verdade.
entre rolos de ferro, o caldo escorre, verde-ouro.
certas doçuras só nascem
depois
que a casca.

— Ondjaki

(lado a)

esconde o ciclo da raíz.
na lama, a doçura do crescimento
e a paciência da terra.

(lado b)

rasteira, quase capim-doce.
trabalha no escuro
enquanto grita o mundo.
acumula mel no silêncio da terra preta.
arranca do chão a beleza
para florir
toda
por dentro.

— Ondjaki

At the source, the small life. She looked north, where the promise lay, where she began to tend to, with prayers and hopes, the cradles of the days to come, sown by her own hand.

— Yara Monteiro

I long to soar with you, and belong to the clouds with you but my only company is the roots. Although they are many I am alone.

— Anika Borko, Sara Munro, Kamila

In the summer, our dog loved to eat pieces of watermelon. Knowing of his gluttony, the neighbor poisoned him.

— Yara Monteiro